


Complacency of the Learned

by Luna_Lalonde



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8768509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Lalonde/pseuds/Luna_Lalonde
Summary: Twelve wizards preside on the Complacency of the Learned, each with a prodigious student in their tutelage. With such supreme intellect and supernormal power, the Complacency seem quite infallible. The student of the de facto leader of the fellowship, however, always has extraneous thoughts running through their mind. These thoughts may end up shaking the order heartily.





	1. The Intrinsically Natural Battle Between Light and Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Homestuck](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/245689) by Andrew Hussie. 



A singular phallic piece drifted its way from light to dark, under the influence of two from a set of four watchful eyes. Once, twice across boundaries from night to day it moved, finally coming to a rest at high noon. Our particular phallus of interest happened to be allied with the brighter side, so it is pleased at its predestined landing. 31 others stall with nonexistent bated breath, waiting for one of the sets of eyes to take hold and make a decision for them. Of course, the eyes would not literally take hold, but a hand connected to the body from which the eyes loom over would, and then the action would start.

Minds calculate and look for a path to victory. A quest of futility? There is no way to know just yet.

The first phallic piece, smaller than half of their companions, but the exact same size as the other half, stands fast in their beam of sunlight, two grafts of change in brightness away from their companions, and similarly on the opposite side, their enemies. The eyes controlling the force allied with night stretched forward a hand, and brings one of the similar sized phalluses up the same increment of brightness grafts to come face to face with the one that had already moved.

The lighter side’s shoulders collectively fall in a sudden exaggerated motion, but composure is quickly regained. Even at this germinal state of the competition, they knew they have been beaten. The knowing eyes above, usually so bright and quick of thought, sulk in the knowledge. The intelligence of those eyes were what lead them to believe they had been beaten so quickly. Many of a lesser thought process would have played on, many moves into the game, before realizing it had all been futile, all in jest from the two eyes, calculating hands, facing them with their chosen dark army. Any common dolt would not have stopped so suddenly.

Words of concession were uttered from the side of the light. The eyes that commanded the losing army were not in the slightest bit surprised. They met the victor’s, as a hand from that side made its way over the battlefield, as a form of cordial conciliation. The hand would not be met, which was likewise not a surprise to the offerer. The hand rescinded its submission, contently. The exchange of lack of surprise satisfyingly cancelled out to zero.

This scene had played out many times before.

“A pleasurable game, as usual,” the victor commented in the direction of the loser, pulling up his gawking form, his flowing apparel sent through with ripples at stork like movements as he rose from from a low stone bench.

“I do believe we’ve set a new lower limit on time sir,” the loser derided, almost boredly, still sitting at the battlefield. Their eyes searched the tiles, light to dark, seemingly inspecting where they could have gone so wrong. “One move each. The entirety of the game, in fact, spanning only roughly 4.13 seconds.”

“I’ll have to check the records, but it certainly seems like a candidate for the most expeditious game that has been played within the walls of the palace,” beamed the victor, beginning to strut round the table holding the battlefield. With swooping steps he made his way over to a shelf nearby. A bookshelf to be precise. One of thousands, in fact, that spiralled out from where the battlefield sat on the heavyset table. From the high windows above, patterns were created of light dark, light dark, across the innumerable quantity of leather bound tomes holding sums of knowledge and details of fantastic fantasy that no one person could ever all contain, crackling scrolls of parchment revealing messages and records, great (but shelf worthy) stone tablets whose messages heed not to be forgotten by time, paperbound pamphlets chock full of raw information, deceivingly complex quickreads in similar fashion, twine strung scripts of enchanting plays and every manner more of literature and the art of storytelling that could be contained on shelves, or failing that, on the floor in organized varieties.

At the chosen shelf, the black army’s commander reached out his stork like hand, just so previously used to cause battle and offer consolation, to a very particular book, chosen with much forethought and care. Or possibly at random. It is impossible to tell.

“Child,” pitched the figure under flowing robes, glistening in a patch of light hailing from the glorious clear stained glass windows above, and casting conflicting purples and greens intermingled in a showy array all around him, adding to his exceedingly specific aesthetic of his presence. “I am of the mind that it will do you a great deal of good to study this particular text. A great wizard can learn great things once they have read their share.”

The sitter, not having turned yet from their seat at the table snidely entreated, “And what might this grand book of books be called.”

In plainly obvious surprise at the remark, the stork started “I, -huff- well,” he flipped book around hastily and observed a bare cover and spine of cochineal smooth leather, small bumps and grooves running about in rivulets where his the thin skinned fingers grazed, making the mere act of holding the book an experience all its own. “It has no name.” he concluded decisively, thrusting the book in the loser’s direction, sending a shimmer of teal and lilac darting over the surfaces of the troves of literature and the shelves they resided on.

“Ah of course, I really should have guessed as much. These years of studying I’ve been so graciously subjected to have clearly not taken their rightful hold on my virgin mind, have they,” the sitter finally stood, gingerly turning and grasping the book held before them. The wingspan of the man holding it was certainly impressive, he had barely moved from the bookshelf and could almost reach back to the table. For some reason, there was slight resistance to the man’s offering of the text. The loser tugged slightly and it finally entrusted it’s weight to them. It was quickly realized that the volume was quite a bit heavier than it looked.

“Now Calmasis,” preached the man who no longer held a book, bringing his hand back upwards and inwards to his chest, making a weakly clenched fist there, “I want that book thoroughly studied and brought back within 6 days time. At noon! Be prepared to give a comprehensive verbal report of what you have learned at that point, and no later.”  
Calmasis mentally prepared to give an eye rolling that would astound a master bowler, their eyes would certainly score a strike and a spare and then some. The book was held, and Cal answered “Of course sir. Zazzerpan’s pupil would do it no other way than satisfactorily, the Great Wizard would have my head if I did not. And since you are that such great wizard, I do have quite something to fear in awesome respect.”

“Excellent, precisely so,” Zazzerpan concluded with a slight grin. He turned, and began to attempt to traverse the maze of shelves. Evidently, however, he had not yet finished his thought,and wading through bays of parchment, he mumbled on and on. Calmasis could no longer audibly hear what was being said, but it was clear that it was not important. Zazzerpan’s oratory performance was truly rousing to his solilocial audience.

Cal gave the book a healthy examination before sticking it fast in their bag, which rested next to the solid white stone bench he had just previously been sitting on. This canvas made holder of Cal’s things had been quite drab and plain in the past, before they and their companions decided to glamourize it, and everyone else’s too. Calmasis’s bag now held sigils they had found in an old black book, in a rainbow of colors -all they could find to paint with in the palace they lived in. They shouldered the pack and began to follow the sound of Zazzerpan’s meandering voice through the papers and shelves.

Cal peered upwards at the library’s second level. On any other day, they would have delighted to take the book just recieved, find a homely table adjacent a window up there, and begin reading on the spot. And how they ached to do so. The view of the city on the western side, or the the forests and plains on the eastern side…

The library was a kind of purgatory. Nothing ever happened there of much excitement, and there was ever a feeling of stillness, of all movement in the world seemingly reduced to a microcosmic play, viewed in a handheld stage whose volume was at all times set to mute. You could, and Cal often did, recline for hours, switching your realm of observation subtly between the crisply and distantly observable world observable from the window, and any of the uncountable pieces of literature held below in the concentrically circling patterned shelves. One could easily spend the rest of their life inside the confines of this place out of place, this haven, a heaven of knowledge and story. In fact, precisely this is what a select few had done, years in the past. Their skeletons now lay in the aptly named Libramausoleum, whose entrance lies below the table holding the battlefield.

The two who now rest there had in their lives been part of the lauded, extravagant collective that owns the library, and the palace surrounding it. The Complacency. The Complacency of the Learned. Calmasis could not now remember the duo’s names, which they had read so many times, sardonically enjoying tracing a finger through the grooves etched on the side of the pale white resting table of the battlefield, thinking, or at least hoping, that mason responsible must have performed the action just as sardonically. Really, what fun was there in the situation if they had not?

Calmasis glanced again at the upper level of the library, bathed in light from the gargantuan windows, and spied a chair they thought might be particularly peaceful and comfortable. Today they would not be able to rest there however, not for quite some time at least. Cal was just as eager to carry out the day’s events instead.

Stopping their train of thought to realize they had become lost in the sea of shelves, Calmasis paused, analyzed, and hurried towards the croaking mahogany doors held ajar in the grand arched gateway between the library and the remainder of the palace. What a maze, an entrapment, this library is. Getting lost would suit quite well. But the rambles from an unseen monologue drone on, reminding you of the task at hand.

Onwards, to Syrs Gnelph. Really, where else could you possibly want to go.


	2. A Room Whose View is not Quite a View but a Peerhole into One's Curiosity

In a room covered in a multitude of colors in the form of all manner of sheets, rags, and blankets which were set awry in such a way that, had the room not been ultimately sealed off at all times, would have gently and pleasantly, cinematically swayed in a cool breeze, there was an opening that would have seemed strange in any normal room. Hidden in a way in the dimly (if at all) lit room, this orifice was one taken straight of the thin drywall, which could be replaced if increased secrecy was to be attained. However, a thin outline could still be discerned.

The unswaying cloth strewn about made an effort to cover this seen oversight. Cloth fell and rippled in such angles that obscured the right and challenged the Euclidean, though geometry did not yet reach Lovecraftian…

An eminence lifted from the spot where the hatch cut the wall. A gentle, caress-full pull. The cloth in some spots seemed to be pulled into a smug anthropomorphic grin, removedly enjoying the fact that they were in fact managing the opposite of what a viewer would think their job would be. One would be invited to utmost curiosity, searching through the layers and colors for some secret surprise, which, of course, did in fact lay within. And subsequently, many had discovered in their curiosity, the treasure within the sheets they thought to see.

Where, though, are the traces of those who searched and found? Certainly, not a single hint was left of their existence in the room where cloth lay sweetly smiling in the stoically still air.

//

Pack backed and quick stepped, a black robed child strode from the palace on the hill. Calmasis repeatedly glanced backwardsly to the great dome of the library, with towers shooting off where considerably less books were stored. The ungleaming white mass of a building was set at stunning monochrome contrasts with the cloud laden sky it seemed to sit adjacent to, instead of here on the ground. The cochineal book sat in Cal’s brightly sigiled pack that bounced to and fro on their back. Their simple but elegant white leather boots clicked against a cobblestone pathway with eagerness.

Cal could’ve sworn they could still hear the murmurings of their “Great Tutor” Zazzerpan drifting along everpresent in the crisp flint colored air. The man was perpetually mumbling it seemed, it was a trait that had gotten him denounced as mad more than once. In fact, to some the perpetualness of his mumbling was akin to the frequency he should be denounced. But only some. Zazzerpan, despite this, kept on mumbling. Cal was well aware that his tutor had quite an indescribable sum at his lips at any given time; after all he was quite deserving of his epithet “The Learned” and the lofty position that came with it. Maybe his knowledge could not be contained in a conversation with mere simple minds, and he was forced to speak to the only one comparable, his own in an ever-lasting soliloquy.

Gaps between the cobblestones on the hill widened from cracks to chasms as the hill plunged level-land bound towards the river basin of Syrs Gnelph. An essence of ethearealitle gravity hung about the hill, physically placing the Complacency above the city’s citizens. From the base one could look up and observe the dull white freestone of the palace, as imposing and awesome as a massive fluff filled cumulous on a sapphire heaven backdrop, where one would suspect a great King of the Sky with more power than is comprehensible rules benevolently from a puffy throne.

Cal was not alone on the sloping path. Beside them gaited along along a friendly face. Being any measure of height taller than her Cal was no significant accomplishment but he child next to them comfortably reached nearly half a head above Cal’s well kept but still somehow unruly lacelike hair. They wore a similar robe, although unlike Cal’s jet black attire, theirs had a pleasant deep emerald tint to the black, the tint growing more saturated as the robe collected in folds downwards and at their dainty red slippers of a similar color to the book resting in Cal’s pack.

“Calmasis,” they piped up, voice proper and steady, yet flowing and sing songy at the same time, “What do you plan to do on this particular holiday to the city?”  
Noticing the slight bob of their companions styled black hair, a stark contrast to their own pearly lace maze of strands Cal answered, “After I have the opportunity to reunite with my family, I am hoping to make my way down to the market.” Plans were stated as if reading from a grocery list.

“Coming from any other person, my reaction would be nothing other than ’make sure you do not spend an unreasonable amount of money’,” the companion gave Cal a side eyed glance, “But Calmasis, from you that sounds like nothing but trouble.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean, surely, dear Myra,” Cal jeered, keeping a placid expression but quickening their speech. “What kind of trouble could i cause just heading into the market like any average person. What could I do. Seriously, I’m looking for ideas, you know how easily I get bored.” Cal gave an exaggerated toothy grin directly to Myra’s face above them.

“Calmasis please. What do you plan on doing once you arrive at the market?”

Cal paused, thinking up the simplest summary of their intentions. After a brief pause wherein quite a few thoughts were rocketed around their brain they began, “Myra, I want to learn. Going to the market is a prime opportunity to learn how the city works. The locality serves as an abrasion to the thick skin of Syrs Gnelph, where it is finally thin enough to observe the blood coursing through inside.” Calmasis seemed reasonably pleased with the statement so quickly conjured up.

“You are quite vividly morbid aren't you,” Myra now looked a few shades paler than before, although not because the mention of blood disquieted her, “Cal, I know I am not able to actually stop you, but please. Please pause to think before you… turn the abrasion into an open wound. Have I used your metaphor correctly?”

Cal gave a small chuckle, which immediately turned Myra far less pale. “Of course Myra, thank you. I will try my absolute hardest to make as clean of an incision as possible.”  
The gaping cobbles the two robed figures walked on now approached the pointy low lying buildings of the city. To their left stretched out miles of tightly packed houses and shops, even here at the outskirts, the foot of the hill, there was much activity to be seen. Darting in and out of doors were citizens in all array of variations as one would expect to see in a bustling urban area, speaking in their common tongue that so closely resembled their architecture. Low lying, but thin and spiked, as if being supported by bony metal beams while being simultaneously dragged down at double the rate of gravity on a normal object. The buildings came to a stop in a near exact line on this side of the city where a road made its way around the base of the Complacency’s hill, providing a hard western border.

To their right, only a few long distance measures of dense buildings continued fronting the road. They quickly gave way to the southern reaches, which bled into the countryside like a drop of dye in water. The two were too low to see now, but out there, once the dye dissipated sufficiently, the farmlands started, drawing life from the river that bisected the city at its highest concentration into eastern and western halves.

Cal and Myra finally met their cobble path with the long border road and with only a slight hiccup in forward momentum, crossed and moved towards their gateway of choice, Tor Street. The two felt the overwhelming bustle like a colony of ants hurrying about immediately consume them. Pouring over all who entered was a sense of complete otherness. The city rested, and seemed to nearly vibrate as a separate planet in a solar system that the palace in the west and the fields to the south and east just happened to also inhabit, in their own independant spinning elliptical orbits. The palace lounged as the incomprehensibly sized center star, the city; our planet, and the fields; a moon. Syrs Gnelph was where life thrived in all its forms, in a way unsustainable to any other locality.

“Calmasis,” started Myra after the two had walked a block into the city, “I am going to meet my mother now in Sudlen. It is only two more blocks in the southern direction. I will be around if you need me.”

“Of course Myra,” smiled Calmasis, “We have nearly the same routine every holiday. I’ll be okay.”

After a brief pause to consider, Myra smiled back, “You worry me. Meet me when you are finished with your family so that I may attend the market with you. I will be here when the time comes.”

“I wouldn't miss it for the death of half the city.”

“You are quite vividly morbid aren’t you,” she chuckled softly, trailing off and stalking down the road leading south, back straight, robe undulations in rhythmic waves, light intermittently reflecting the deep dazzling green as if someone had woven beautiful perfect jade stone directly into the fabric with deft, near numinous fingers. Of course, it was rumored Myra had done precisely this.

Sudlen was the clearing meadow at the edge of the forest, where the sunlight finally pokes through, and the busy congestion of life is finally let out like a stifled breath. No place would be a better fit for Myra and her mother to live.

Myra looked fondly at the southward progressively thinning buildings lining Onteti street, which lead south to her mother's house. The next intersection held Roin Street, where many of her childhood friends had lived. Ever since being selected into the tutelage of one of the great Complacency, Myra had scarcely seen them. However, on holidays like these the chance of having a cordial reunion suddenly jumped to a non zero figure. Quite a few of them played in the cloud filtered sunbeams now, dancing in the street and cackling at childlike japes. The faces were far more... worn, as a word, to Myra now it seemed. No longer were the completely careless days of the entire troupes eternal youth present. Myra raised a spindly arm and waved unthinkingly. She was met with a tsunami of fluttering limbs back. The road they stood on cooked cooly in the light, baked for years and years on end in contrasting summer heat. The wavers standing atop it knew the street no other way.

Myra kept plodding along. Enos Street was just ahead. Through the alleyways that divided buildings as if cut by a giant's knife, she could see blinking glimpses her own abode. Defined by indefinably shaped billowing cloth, colorful fabric, blowing lustrously in the just barely existent breeze. Nostalgia filled all the cavities combining to make the beating organ in her chest. But mostly the left ventricle. Yes that was certainly noticeably more filled than the others.

As she finally rounded the corner and looked down sun drenched concrete she noticed a familiar scene. Not a soul stirred, drawing a viewer's sight immediately up to the swelling waves of fabric flying from the sides of the house a ways down at the end of the street. The house stood tall and thin but it's architecture was shrouded in the breeze.  
Stepping out onto a sun beam, Myra could see a figure on a deck high above the street, rocking slowly, as if blown the same way as the cloth. That is to say, by seemingly nothing. Myra smiled and called to her mother.

//

Calmasis kept a consistent gait, stepping as crisply as the air around them felt. Several streets had already blown by, teeming with entropy. They pretended not to notice the snaking alleyways, the partially darkened, partially revealing windows, the cracks in the open street teeming with out of place but struggling life, countless boxes and containers holding pieces of people’s everyday lives that Cal would never fully know. They had walked this path many times before and their innate curiosity may now on this high numbered visit might seem peculiar. Maybe not.

“Cal,” a call could be heard hanging out of the chaos on the frost laden air and Calmasis was broken from their self discipline to acknowledge it.

With owl-like movements -a feathery white head snapping to and trailing its lank feathers behind in whiplash- they scanned the area. The call, it would seem, had no source. Innumerable windows, down labyrinthine ways… there was no sign of any speaker. Calmasis wondered if they were as mad as Zazzerpan, that maybe he was talking to erroneous voices that called abbreviated versions of his name. _Zazz_ they would call, _Zazz listen to my new thesis. Let's discuss!_

The general buzz of the streets carried on, unaffected by the small child's piqued interest in their surroundings, and with a slow click into a progressive position, Cal decided to continue onward, reassuming their discipline. The city’s mystery ate away at them with an even toothier bite than rugularly. Although still keeping their regulated form, their dark eyes darted up and around at every semblance of interest. Which for an active mind like Cal’s meant just short of everything.

Passing at an angle now was Mete Street, at the far end of which the buzzing hive of Syrs Gnelph met it’s epicenter. Shopbuildings teeming with their auctionable goods, stalls and stands like erected tents wherein the only water in the miles and miles of erg filled desert lay, peddlers broadcast like brightly colored flowers their for sale wares to every bee happening to fly by. Long streets, Mete as the mother flow, dozens of others split off into an array of tumultuously directioned walkways, twists and turns. At any given moment during the day, there could scarcely be any concrete seen as feet pattered about, bodies above with exchange in hands.

Cal had never once tried to fix themself from looking at the market as they passed. Their snow owl like head gazed in admiringly, taking in as many details of the grand spectacle as possible, even at this far distance. That is, until the next row of homes and buildings broke the glorious line of sight.

Sitting buried in the mass of buildings several streets over from where they now walked, Cal’s house sat, not simple or obvious to find. Luckily, the path thereto was neatly stored in their mind. Cal made their way along, hugging their arms tight around themself in the inside of their robe. The buildings that lined the street became the walls of a wind tunnel in this weather and caused the already iced over air to have an extra sting. What little show of life was normally in Cal’s skin had long since retreated to better care for important organs. They appeared gray as the concrete they walked on.

Some disturbance surfaced in Cal’s plane of observancy, somehow more acute than the natural chaos of the city. Footsteps pounding a syncopated rhythm into the gusty breeze’s melody. A sparkle, startlingly, electrically blue, even colder than the thin air, like an icicle that hangs from an awning and comes falling like an executioner’s axe, and stabbing like a dagger, sailed aside the blood deprived right cheek of Cal’s face. It burned like fire, and the gash that was left was just as red.

“It’s _magic_ ,” jabbed what was presumably the voice of the caster. Cal further extended their owl metaphor, as if intrinsically knowing that is how they appeared, and turned only their head to look their assailant in the eye. If it were possible that humans could in reality turn their heads 180 degrees around, this action may have been considerably more effective than it already was.

Boring black holes straight through the air, Cal sent no signals through their tensed muscles to budge even a fraction of any unit of measure.

The caster -Cal observed, red hair in a whirlwind, a white shirt decorated with blue and yellow, a face that looked as is if multicolored tears had been synthetically drawn on, and then those had been drowned by real ones- looked on for a moment, and then realizing by some intuition the sure peril of their current situation, began at a slow, backwards facing tempo, again their beat to the melody that had all the while never stopped playing. Accelerando, the pounding of feet. How good the acoustics here on this city street.


	3. The Homely Hearth, Wherein Motivations and Origins had been Birthed

Wounds sting in the cold as if the thing they were caused by innately carries a poison with it. Calmasis’ cheek acted as a snowy plane whereupon the emblem of rust spread like oil paint down a sanguineous canvas. There was no force to pump the blood in any sort of rush. Cal resigned to make even more expeditious pace to their home.

Shadows loomed as massive intangible giants in the early morning streets, passed through regularly by the drones and meanderers of the city. Buildings quickly became imposing ebony skyscrapers, painted as a mural on the ground. Some massive artist of the sun had crafted these, using the streets and the open ground as their grand canvas, creeping up walls of establishments when necessary and giving a more somber attribute to all in sight. Beautiful was their detailwork, the many features of the spindly creeping houses all cast their own minute darknesses to add to the contour and the stupor of complex geometry.

Calmasis ever wore a non committal look upon their face, despite their surroundings, of which now included at its focal point a building that seemed to be built by splinters and discarded wood choppings, the unwanted brother to pieces that may have been used for a building something more important, say, a palace. Having stopped walking, they stood before this house, unmoving.

Unimposed by the structure now meekly looming before them, Cal took a moment to realign themself for a proper entrance. The dark windows of the house existed as a daunting image in the way that they were never prepared for what they might find inside. Here on the street, the wind continued to bite. It would be far preferred by anyone to be out of it by now, even if that meant entering into the mystery of a home that they once lived in.

Cal much preferred the housing provided by the Complacency. Never were there any distractions or disturbances. Ignoring that complete lie, Cal was actually quite fond of educated disruptions of the Complacency themselves and their students. Each of the twelve (and their one to one tutelage with their students) had their own unique eccentricities, Zazzerpan being least exempt of the bunch. Often studies were interrupted by the tremor of a obviously reined explosion, or the fumes of a particularly contemptible concoction wafting up from a basement kitchen or makeshift brewing station on other occasions. A vast majority of Cal’s temporal ticking by was spent in the library or their own room, which was positioned calculatedly across from Zazzerpan’s, separated by a homely corridor of blonde and contrasting woods and intricate carvings. At least to Cal, time passed with nose buried away into some hefty tome that either Zazzerpan had graciously in his vast and limitless sagacity assigned for studying, or that Cal themself had selected for pure expansion of knowledge or pleasure was time well spent. The city dwelling where their family presided contained a stark lack of this in particular, especially in the time that Cal had ceased permanently living there.

Upon a melodramatic inhalation, Calmasis took some calculated steps forward, all the while aware of the cold white-speckled pitch windows that could surely hold any unseen facade with a questionably ambiguous intent. The one facet of life Cal ever really preferred about this house was it’s acute lack of luminescence, regardless of where the sun happened to deflagrate in the sky.

One full step brought Cal’s booted foot down on acutely brittle wood, colored as if it had once been dyed a healthy hazel over a dead driftwood reality, but the dye had since fled in fear of harsh weather. With a shift of weight, and a creaking like the tumult filled cries of dying fauna, an ascent began. The lifelessness of the stairs was steeper than seemingly justifiable and would cause many, but not a white haired owl, to clutch for the harsh feeling twisted spine like support of the wrought iron railing. Cal resorted to sweeping strides where in their earlier years they had been forced to revert to quadrupedal upward progress. The doorway above formed a massive monolith, not stopping from ever growing in vertical intimidation as one climbed the angular steps. The paint blackened slab of hinged wood stood over Calmasis with a complete awesomeness in perceived size, which Cal of course plainly knew had not actually changed from when they had loitered down on the foot beaten concrete below.

Glittering slate colored metal feels to touch like a multitude of tiny daggers stabbing at your bare hand. Curved as if an arrow could be strung to it and shot slightly skyward, the doors singular accessory, a handle rested quite strikingly in its place in the door. Cal gave a decisive press down of their thumb to unlatch their entry by way of coming into contact with yet more tiny daggers. The click that procured from the action resounded through the empty street, adding yet another source of percussion to the windy metropolis’ temperamental symphony. A gasp like that of a life being swiftly let out of the body it inhabits was added to the symphony as well, as the signal that the facade of the house was finally no longer unbroken.

Calmasis’ boot met yet another wooded surface, though this one considerably more solid. As the cold sting began to ameliorate in their cheeks, Cal observed the smell of edible essence, causing the owl to ponder how long it had been since they had dined on a healthy selection of prey. Darkened mahogany walls embraced Cal on all sides, almost claustrophobically so, with only about enough space for two sets of arms to be stretched out in parallel directions. Each of the gaunt panelled walls had a way cut through them leading into more dark framed rooms, save the one behind where the blackened door made a resoundingly formidable drum beat closed, putting an end to the current movement of the symphony. The cadence was beautiful. The sound gently roused the arachnidian chandelier that dangled lightly twinklingly unlit from a more brightly wooded ceiling above.

“Hello,” cawed the owl into their nest, seemingly knowledgeable already of the futility of their offer at cordiality.Being met with a silence, Cal was not in the least bit concerned. Forward they took a small number of steps, and once through the door’s limits, they turned to a low lying couch of the most drained maroon, which appeared to sag enough to not give a second thought to the solidity of the floor and instead phase right through it.

White wisps not dissimilar from the ones upon Cal’s head sprouted up from where their bearer, raising at an even pace, to become more pronounced until a whole head of those familiar hairs could be seen above the couch’s back, and a face and shoulders followed.

“My dear Calmasis,” crooned the owl feather counterpart, “How delightfully unexpected for you to show, here, on this day. At this hour and in this weather, my word!”

“Your act is mildly amusing, Mother,” spoke Calmasis, “Had it not been for the fact that it is ruined by my knowledge of your knowing of me arriving at a scheduled time periodically, I would have payed nearly half my weekly allowance to see you perform it.”

The couch’s matron effortlessly, elegantly, took to her feet. Her full form stood head and shoulders above Cal, once unfolded like a spider’s stick like limbs. Appearing similar to the iron railings bounding the stairs to her home, her arm stretched out and served the same purpose, supporting her body by placing a sharp looking hand on the back of her previous seat. The spider smiled a grin fit only for some such arachnid, stretched thin over the palpable tension in the room.

“My child haven’t I told you to stop playing with sharp objects,” she mused, her attention for a moment encapsulated by the sliver on Cal’s cheek, which was again reddening as circulation restored itself, “You’ve gotten too friendly with that Syl the Edged character haven’t you.”

“Mother, the Edged is the singular member of the impressive Complacency that i spend the majority of my time at the grand palace with, of course. His complete willingness to make use of his respected and unmatched skills regarding martial prowess for every situation that might demand it is truly admirable and downright inspiring.”

“Just several days ago he refused to put a stop to that hungry bear’s rampage through Hala, didn’t he? Poor thing had to be bludgeoned to death by a horde of citizens. I heard one even died in the ordeal.”

“I repeat myself, truly admirable, is he not? I aim to be not dissimilar in any way when I take my place on the Complacency, if I ever do with that lauded Zazzerpan’s lifespan of a god. Would such practices garner any overage of pride from you mother?” Cal leaned slightly forward from the spot in the room they had neglected to move from ever since their mother made an appearance.

“Why of course Calmasis,” she wore a look of hyperbolic exasperation, “I fully support your every endeavor with this lofty Complacency business. I would simply beam with pride.”

“I expect no less. I’ll make sure to let the citizens of the city fend for themselves against mortal peril at least once within my first month in the position.”

Not relying on slow change of subject, the spider inched forward “Come here child, I’ll clean the wound for you.”

“It was made with a sterile blade it doesn’t need cleaning.”

“A sterile blade...” Cal’s mother turned to a small table and took the dark vinyl bag that sat atop it into her hands. She methodically made the lustreless metal clasp undone, and rummaged through it’s contents for a moment. With a slight jump of the eyebrows, a diminutive green tinted bottle and a clean but clearly used cloth were produced. A small popping noise was made as she finessed the bottle open with only a thumb, letting the alcoholic odor of the liquid inside pour into the room, veiling the scent of food that had previously dominated. Cloth was placed against the mouth of the bottle and the whole system became inverted briefly. Once satisfied at the level saturation of the alcoholic liquid in the cloth, Cal’s mother raised it to their cheek where the gash glared from. Cal made no effort to flinch despite how the solution must have felt on an open wound. 

“Would you like me to hold this here for you for the next several minutes, or are you capable yourself?” Cal’s mother remained firm, wearing the same smiling expression until Cal replied.

“I believe myself to be capable, thank you,” They put their hand to their cheek and felt the roughness of the dry cloth, and moving their fingers over small mountains and valleys, began to feel the cool, pungent area where the liquid had soaked. Cal held the cloth there now, but decided not to keep it for very long. Already a faint trickle of blooming bodily fluid was beginning to overtake the anodyne rag held against broken skin.

“Would you like to remove your bag and cloak too? This is your own home after all, you’re allowed to get comfortable,” Cal’s mother moved into the kitchen behind where they stood. The wooden countertops that rested there were hardened by years of use, leaving the tops smooth and significantly blackened. She moved to the wide, low set stove that sat on four curved metal legs at the far wall. Cal made an effort out of observing the multitude of near empty glass containers, rising up like the towers of the palace in a disorderly array of heights and tints. All were made foggy from long periods of time holding various spices and ingredients, and light shining through them was made more diffuse and colored, leaving the kitchen with a peculiar glow.

As Calmasis unshouldered their pack with a singular arm and gingerly set it on a stool standing near the countertop, their mother brought out a shallow metal pan out of the oven’s gaping mouth. Delicately, it was slid onto a dish on the countertop between mother and child. Cal made no effort to remove their cloak, which glinted in the aforementioned peculiar light.

“Try some Calmasis”, the one still wearing a thick armor of oven mitts entreated. Scents of food returned to the dominant spot in the room’s odor hierarchy, aided by Cal removing the cloth from their skin. Odor hierarchy is indeed a prominent feature in any proper room. Had the coup brought about by the alcoholic cleaning solution succeeded in bringing their scent to power for much longer, the realm of the room might have well fallen into complete and total disarray. Somber was the farewell to the regime though, Cal did quite like that ruthless autocrat of the rag.

“Mother, as I am already fully aware that you must have baked this confection all by your own hand in preparation for ameliorating my intense hunger built up on the long, weekly trek here to, would you care to explain what it is you ask me to ingest?”

“Oh well of course, dear… it is…-”

“Iksor,” a new voice interrupted, though not commandingly. The name drop did more to accidentally bump the previous speaker’s already stumbling sentence in a hurried rush down a hallway, dropping several papers along the way, rather than plowing it over with a lead-clad tank. The new speaker did not leave much to the suspense of their reveal, even though that may have made for a more interesting scene in some cases. The body that held the voice did not care for interestingly written scenes, however, and was already in the room by the time mother and child had turned their heads in alert to it.

Looking to Calmasis, a striking figure, draped in their shimmering ebony cloak, with slatelike skin, snowdrift hair, and the aesthetically contrasting sliver on their cheek, he spoke, “Ah hello, I nearly forgot your stopping by time. Do you like the souffle I baked?” he gave a look not dissimilar to Cal’s mother’s own stretched smile, but seemed to be too preoccupied to put as much concentration into the act. Beyond the smile, he appeared to not deviate from the looks of the woman standing in the kitchen even slightly, save for the cloud colored cleanly kempt stubble around his chin. Even the outfits, fitting on similar shaped bodies, were nearly identical, black sleeved white buttoned long vest, cinched at the waist, and matching black tight fitting pants were worn by both. Each of their heads of hair, familialy white and wavy like Calmasis’, was styled behind their ears, and slightly fanned outwards around their chins.

“I will provide you with a comprehensive analysis as soon as I have tasted a morsel, uncle” Of course this is the reason why Calmasis was selected to be the most prodigious member of the students of the Complacency. If you are keeping track, that is two comprehensive analyses promised in one day. Truly impressive. Bewildering to the pedestrian mind, really.

“Of course you will Cal,” he turned from scooping envelopes off the waist high table where the satchel of wound care supplies had been plucked from and replaced, back to Iksor, Calmasis’ mother, “I’d love to enjoy your child’s weekly company, but I’m afraid I must leave rather quickly. Important meeting for the Market Union Board being held. Did you know our buying power here in the city has fallen considerably compared to nearby states?”

“I thought those travelling peddlers were being more purse friendly than usual,” Iksor’s smile was replaced by a look of commonplace small talk bearing, “Doesn’t do me any wrong, or anyone else to my knowledge, but what has happen to change it this way?”

“That’s just it,” Cal’s uncle ranted hurriedly, “We’re trying to figure it out. Probably attempt to counteract it as well, although we wouldn’t like to hurt anyone’s purchases in the process.”

“Fascinating. Do have my best interest in mind while making your important decisions, won’t you Kryd?” Cal’s mother flashed her smile again.

“Surely,” her brother distractedly mumbled, cradling an arm full of his chosen envelopes, and attempting -successfully- to maneuver the door hand, twisted and intricate, into an open position.

Melody of the streets glimpsed for a moment and then is once again ended with the door’s percussion.

Calmasis heavily swung their head back around from the direction of the doorway to where their mother stood. She maintained the same posture and expression, as if momentarily stuck in time. Cal thought, _If only it were as easy to hear her thoughts as my own. Or as easy to imagine as Zazzerpan’s. Zazzerpan has such a simple mind. Why can’t everyone be like him._ The statuelike state held by their mother did not break quickly, and Calmasis was not one to disturb a perfectly well achieved silence with unnecessary outpourings of unthought words. Nor were they one to move very quickly, or much at all, if the situation called for them to be so disciplined. So the two remained, as if features in some bizarre art gallery for an indefinite amount of time.

The gallery certainly held an unusual sense of beauty, one that would go unrealized by most artists, in fact. The deep tones of the wood grounded the room to a sense a of twilight, a sense of activities needing to be unrushed, and methodically carried out, as it seemed it was a place of halcyon and solitary focus. In fact, to see more than one figure in the room was slightly off putting, the notion being shifted slightly. However, as long as these two figures treated moving and speaking as as much of a premium as the mother and child there now, the feeling could return to comfortable conformity.

Adding to the scene was the aforementioned light, drowned in the various fogged glasses. It allowed the luminescence to appear to be absorbed by the wood, coloring each surface even greater saturations of colors.

A unweightful silence hung in the colored, dust filled air, as silence is only heavy when it would make either party uncomfortable to sit through. The silence could not last forever in a house in a city as busy as this, though. Soon small thudding could be heard from a frontward room in the house. Such small sounds did not do much to rouse statues from their stillness. The thuds grew louder until one resounded, much closer. Shuffling, and finally a viewer to the peculiar gallery.

“Calmasis!” the viewer exclaimed upon taking a quick look at the art exhibited, they smiled a somewhat tooth lacking grin from down lower than even Cal stood. Standing, which continued to be very still by the way, though with the concession of eyes moved to look at the one who had called their name. “Look Cal. Look at my teeth!” the grin grew even more exaggerated.

Calmasis finally shifted, which would’ve startled any gallery goers had they been any other than the small one smiling there now. “You do seem to have misplaced quite a few of them,” they put kindly, eyeing the gaping orifice in the child’s face.

“Three,” the child held up the corresponding number of fingers, “Since you were here last time”

“Impressive, almost unusually so in fact.”

“I’m not unusual-”

“Len, be quiet,” a voice again came from an unseen body -or at least one would presume it came from a body, however a certain bodiless voice from the city streets still stuck in Cal’s mind- through the doorway. Much like the first disembodied voice in the house, this one did not seem to think that it would be of any cinematic pertinence to appear belatedly. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this situation as far as they could tell. They padded into the room presently, unrushed as their predecessor had been.

The figure that entered bore the same wispy white topped head, completing a nest of four owls occupying the room.There was scarcely an effort made by them to continue the surely enticing dialogue that they had just forcibly and succinctly ended.

The smaller of the party did not have the same intentions, however. “Nal,” Len whined, having put down their three digits, “Why do I have to be quiet, I was just showing Cal my no teeth.”

The little one was met with a bit of an uncomfortable silence. For them at least. The student, the newcomer, and the spider all were perfectly acquainted, and in fact worked towards the lack of noise. At least one of the three had some inkling of other’s feelings however. Calmasis’ mother spoke to the small child, “I’m sure Cal appreciates your lack of teeth and your excitement about the subject honey. Don’t you Calmasis.”

“Of course, and I’m sure Naliya is even more enthralled than I,” Cal directed their gaze towards their similar aged cousin, waiting for their response. They were met with only a spotless chalkboard of an expression, and a terse but convivial nod. 

“Naliya, Leni, your father has left already, he likely won’t be home for a good number of hours,” Cal’s mother had put to rest slightly her strict act, but maintained composure far above the average person’s capability.

Len slightly pouted, “Oh. Alright Aunt Iksor.”

After a several more moments of noiseless interaction, wherein Len had abandoned the cause and entered the space beyond the couch where some playthings were kept, Cal made a mental note that it was quite improbable that their mother was going to cut a piece of souffle to increase the visit’s hospitality. They looked to Naliya, who understood by some unspoken conveying of thought the needs of their cousin in this situation. This was a weekly occurrence after all. Some would say that it is a shame it is so, but the pearl haired family felt the relationships held within this house were in a comfortable state and need not be altered, as peculiar as they may seem. Without so much as an intention to question them from any in the room, Naliya spun about face on their black slippered heels and began a leisurely but purposeful gait through the doorway, and towards the stairwell they had just so recently entered from.

Calmasis gave a short glance at Len who had found their things and was setting them up in some clearly sensible array on the rug in front of the couch. They did not give another glance to their mother behind the counter in the kitchen, who simply stood, not having changed much from her statuistic nature of before, and seemed to be absorbing the colored beams of light in a modest, calming way. The slightly lazy smile remained.

Important, Cal realized, was remembering the pack they had unshouldered and left on a stool beside the counter. They made quick, languid movements without initiating contact with their mother’s overseeing gaze, and latched a hold of one of the canvas straps with a diligent hand. In the same sweeping motion, they swung the weight of the pack with their small body and exited the room without sacrificing any momentum or fluidity. Their robe followed in calligraphic strokes and painted the room in the colors of light reflection.

Back within the claustrophobic hublike area accompanying the front door, Cal could already hear Nal’s footsteps subsiding far above and through the doorway to their left. The reverberations of the small amount of sound left over from the action was made distinct by the heavy toned wood on every angle, a distinction that Cal felt was one of the few features that made the house a home in their mind. A sound to put the outside world to rest.

In an effort maybe to keep the comforting sound from disappearing completely, Cal lifted their still booted foot and started upwards, with a much more verbose version of the sound they had just listened to.

Once the ascent was halfway completed, Calmasis was met with another similarly wooded wall instead of more stairs, which required a near complete reversal of direction to continue upon. Before doing so, however an observation of a point of interest on the wall was necessary. Suspended quite neatly in the middle of the direction altering wall was a work of art that had been observed by Cal many times previously. It featured in its drained and slightly darkened color palette the bust of a character, who should seem jovial, but was quite oddly wearing a more somber expression. There were no japes to be had for this gold and blue clad inhabiter of flat space in the stairwell. Their hat went off in threefold directions, unpredictably so. For Cal, however, the hat’s strangeness attribute was completely predictable as this painting had sat in this place for as long as they could remember. Cal reasoned that the character’s expression was so set this way in reaction to the scene taking place behind their paint immortalized bust in the foreground, even though that scene seemed to be happening on quite a contrasting plane of existence.

A collective of twelve long, lugubriously robed figures, six to each side of the blue and gold shoulders, stood with their backs turned to the viewer and the foreground bust. Their robes were sharp in appearance, and were homogeneously colored with their equally pointed hats. Each double peaked and eccentrically shaped hat was stabbing towards the lifeless mat of grass that they all stood on, and each face under the hats presumably peered purposefully upwards. They gazed up at a deep violet sky, dripping with even deeper violet phallic flagellum. Why would they be phallic? Cal decided they were definitely not phallic. In any case, each writhing appendage snaked downwards, seemingly trying to reach the already pestilence riddled ground with their ambiguously morally aligned tips. Their origin, made more obscure even than their morals by a near black shade of purple that dispersed like a heavy gas, was near haunting in it’s inexactness. All that reached towards the robed figures became one ethereal mass that consumed the heavens. The tri pointed hatted figure dominating the events mourned.

A commonplace, really. Cal turned and strode up, attempting to complete their ascent.

Once arrived at the top of the stairwell, door already opened by the previous ascenter, Cal made for the room straight ahead. Through the doorway was an open area with two beams of light shining in from Cal’s sides. Ahead were three doors, set at trapezoidal angles. All surfaces remained consistent in their dark wood panelling, for the vividly upkept stylistic theme to be dropped like a heated item of food would be simply indecent. Although, the increase of limpid outlets to the outside world in the walls made this room, or rather hall, seem a bit lighter.

Cal’s cousin’s path was again easily marked by the unblocked doorway, and thus into the room straight ahead Cal strode.

Upon entry, and turning in the slant ceilinged, light prism of a room, Cal spoke to the one they had followed through the house, “Naliya, I understand you have something to show me.” Their hands clasped steadily in the folds of their robe’s back, their owl eyes never ceasing from scanning vigilantly.

Naliya refused acknowledging Calmasis’ attempt at conversation. Instead they stayed preoccupied in their business of fingering through an especially daedal organization system that occupied near half the floor on the far side of the room.

At length, their meticulous searching came to smooth stop, and their hand clasped around the desired object with dedication to it. To most, something stored in the esoteric labyrinth that was kept in this room is akin to buried treasure, with ample rewards for managing to somehow find your boon, through twists and traps and cryptic clues given from old seafaring scragglebeards. You could almost feel the banal sense of adventure, questing through jungles and fighting rudely caricatured natives to achieve your goal. This all happens in this small room, yes. Every time. Unless of course, you are Naliya. Then the enigma falls away like leaves in autumn and the path to the treasure is as clear as a king in the company of peasants. That king just cannot help himself from flaunting his incomparable riches, and the peasants have never felt more destitute.

In any case, Naliya turned and set the box on an open plot of flooring between where they kneeled and their cousin stood. The box lay perfectly framed in a streak of artfully sent sunlight that greyed through the viscous clouds.

“And what might we be presenting today, my cousin?” Cal’s composure could be seen ever so gradually slipping as a smile formed on their face. The top of the box slid open under Naliya’s hand.


	4. An Inkling to the Machinations and Innerworkings that May Be Best Left Unthought About For the Common Mind

“Did you see! It was Myra, she’s back!” a voice called on Roin Street, after the tsunami of waves had ceased, and the singular one waved to had rounded the corner. From the street, one of the japers had darted into their house, tall and free standing much like Myra’s. The abundance of colors was woefully unpresent, however. The walls of every building there residing held a dull gray hue, beaten by the wide (usually) bright sky that seemed to shine on the south end far more than any other part of the city. This being probably untrue due to the fact that the city only stretched some several miles in any direction and could hardly have differing weather in its far reaches was a fact ignored by most of those who dwelt. Citizens of Syrs Gnelph were known to be superstitious.

“Of course, it’s a holiday for her Porlun,” Porlun’s father spoke to her spoke to her in pleasing tones, his daughter’s excitement was enough to illuminate a room.

“I hope she’ll come over this time,” Porlun prattled into the small but open space of the room, spinning while speaking. Her face painted with longing, “It’s been so long.”

“I bet she will, I know it,” lighting the stove in the corner of the room with a ringing crimson flash from the tip of his fingers, the father smiled reassuringly as only a parent can at his child.

Though the exterior was seemingly burnt and hard, the house’s interior held a homely warmth, as if all that supersticial sun had soaked in and created a comfortable room in it’s manifestation. Porlun relaxed into a easeful chair and let her mind run with all the things she’d do if Myra visited. Myra had been best friends with Porlun before Frigglish the Fruitful swept her up. Such an imposing, even if non-malicious moniker, for a man Porlun had forever been afraid of, as the awesome power of the Complacency was something any logical person should at least revere. The fire on the stove blazed. The spark that lit it was about the only magic anybody in Porlun’s family could perform, and it made her feel somewhat unpowerful, and insignificant. She admired Myra’s “majyyk” and it’s fantastical displays.

“I need to go into the office today,” frankly stated the fire starter. “There is… important business that needs to be taken care of.”

“You’ll miss Myra, Dad!”

The stove hummed lowly.

“Por, you know my matters at work are more important. I’m sorry,” Porlun’s father offered gently. He shifted his weight to his hands on the countertop and leaned towards his daughter.

“Yes...” Porlun trailed off, curling her legs up in the seat she sought to draw as much comfort from as possible, “You work so much Dad.”

“I know buddy. I’m sorry. My attention is just required… so very often.”

Porlun’s father continued cooking, adding to the room’s homeliness. Frost could be seen on brisk the mornings like these sticking to long parchment colored blades of grass that less resembled blades and more tired willow trees sagging in the season’s weather. Thusly, the glow of heat coming from the stove was more than welcome. Porlun decided to rest her eyes for just a bit, she’d go looking for Myra later. Magyykal Myra.

//

“Myra, what a ludicrous chance of seeing one such as yourself in this embroilment of bodies,” Cal appropriated one of their mother’s signature smiles as they approached, which was only one out of the two things they took from the house that day. The other rested within the company of the yet to be opened, sanguineously colored book in their bag, which was again hanging fastly on their back, adorned by a rainbow of sigils.

Embroilment was simply the only word you could use for the bustling mass of economy fuelers that softened the ground with their barrage of footsteps. The scene was the same Cal observed from afar on their journey across town. It would be trite to describe the twisting paths through teeming stalls, enthusiastically dramatic peddlers, wares overflowing like an angry sea over a dam, only to be hastily bought up in the time it takes to whisper a surreptitious bargain, while multitudes of other transactions take place at the very same instant. It would be trite to describe all this so I won’t.

“Calmasis,” started Myra, stopping abruptly upon noticing the wound that still marred Cal’s cheek, “Calmasis! What happened to your face. I leave you alone for only a few hours and-”

“You know as well as I do that I have perfectly well thought out explanation for this dermal fallacy,” Cal interjected, hands clasped behind in the folds of their billowing cloak once again, as if prepared to give a rehearsed speech upon a podium. All that was required was the podium and some rehearsing to remove this simile from a state as a literary device. It did seem, however, they would have an audience if they were to acquire such provisions. An audience numbering more than just their acquaintance beside them, “You see Myra, on my weekly way to visit my family, a giant obelisk, one I had never seen before, caught my eye.”

“A giant obelisk,” Myra folded her green shimmering cloaked arms across her chest. The colors seemed less vibrant, though more magical in the brisk, dim air, “On the very same path you have walked every single week for past 4 years. The self proclaimed owl incarnate has never seen a giant obelisk in the city they have lived in their entire life.” Her expression would be enough to deter any average storyteller from continuing their fantastical fabrications. But as previously stated many times, and will likely be repeated several more, Calmasis was far from an average soul. By any rate, Cal could not disappoint the second listener, for they showed true loyalty to the story-teller, listening even though not talked to, from a position not close enough for a personal tale.

“Yes Myra, a giant obelisk,” maintaining their posture of clasped hands, they made expressive gesticulations with their body instead of arms as they spoke, and began walking further into the disarray of the market, an added challenge for the second listener trailing some steps behind, “Now will you allow me to continue the story of the wound on my cheek, or would you rather ignore my troubles altogether.”

Myra sighed, sending a haze of breath whirling into the slate atmosphere. “Go on. Your fables have never directly caused problems in the past.” It was a lie.

“Thank you, now where was I,” Calmasis pondered for a moment, choreographing as far into their story as they could manage within the blink of the instant. The chilling breeze and general cacophony of the market made formulating an alacritous story somewhat more of a trouble. Trouble that Calmasis could of course overcome with flying colors. Drawing a breath, which sent flutters through their robe, they unraveled their soon to be tome of a narrative.

“Down Formes Street I strolled as I would every week, as you have been so kind as to remind me,” three smirks exchanged, “when I noticed a building to be by some strange design of the past several days to be missing a large chunk. You’ll note the barrage of sound we heard coming from the city while we were resting in the Flight Room at the apex room of Contrivance Tower in the palace, don’t you Myra.”

“Yes I do Calmasis.” The second listener did not but was too far away to ask.

“Right,” Calmasis continued, “the theory I formed when I noticed the breach in the building wall was this: the sound we heard had been some demolition crew chunking away at this poor structure. Or otherwise some unplanned disaster. In either event, the noise came from the destruction of the building I have only just seen.

“I made my way nearer, as this was an oddity from my oh-so-boring-and-rehearsed,” again, the smirking, the third smirk in the distance appearing wilder than the closer two, “path to my family’s dwelling. Once nearing closer, I discarded much of my curiosity for something more intriguing.

“Through the hole in the bricks, I was able to ascertain a good view of a quite trenchant black point. I approached, as this was certainly even farther out of the ordinary than I had anticipated, and I could not sate my curiosity, no matter how strong my discipline is on average. You know how strong my discipline is, right Myra.”

“Hm,” Myra made a curt nod. The two dodged through a particularly tumultuous knot of bargainers, gathered around a demonstration of some sharp pointed metal instrument lodged into the surface of a rickety makeshift table, with another appendage spinning malicious strokes around in a perfect circle, guided by the hand of the presenter, and creating some manner of mysteriously enchanting imagery on a piece of paper. Several flashes were cast from the presenter’s finger tips, followed by the viewers nervously peering around and huddling in even closer. The third party member became lost in the sea of populace, or perhaps was enthralled by this disconcerting display and forgot to listen in on the story further.

Calmasis resumed once they and Myra appeared side by side once again, “I approached the crooked alleyway nearest to this peculiar sight and began the trek towards my point of interest, through that dingy path. It truly was quite disgusting, do you know how much junk is in alleyways? I nearly had to stop my progress just to observe some particularly strange items I happened to see there. A good choice of a leisurely walk if we have the time in the future.

“I came into sight of the obelisk and took in it’s stunning beauty, in the middle of a circular adjacency of the behinds of buildings. It stood just barely taller than those structures around it, and strikingly white. I plodded nearer and could observe now that there were inscriptions along the entire length of the monument. Writing, in fact. A immortalization of something that someone in particular had felt important enough to preserve. So I read.

“‘Here marks the center of Sarapen, the doomed city. Here marks the epicenter of death of our most revered. Here marks the end of an era.’”

There was a pause as Cal and Myra observed a tottering stall of intricate knicknacks. About little finger length, metallic and curved around on themselves, the knicknacks hung from the stall’s weather shielding awning in a chaotic array, set so each could hang on each other, long chains came cascading down from the makeshift roof, already wrought with holes from being poked through an innumerable amount of times before. They littered the counter too, with absolutely no sense of order, and from behind it, a broad faced man whose face was cratered like his awning smiled widely and unmovingly. The expression seemed plastered there as he leaned over his wares and swiftly traced the crowd with hyper-round eyes. Those eyes finally fell on Calmasis and Myra, whom he held in locked gaze for roughly the amount of time he thought it would take to sell one of his small metallic items. Calmasis and Myra had no intention of buying said items, and continued walking.

“Quite dramatic Calmasis. Such a historically significant locality, that we have never so much as heard about before?” Myra mused, focused on events in sight more actively interesting, like the herd of children attempting to sell homemade crafts off of their smallest friend’s back. 

“Who knows how much the Complacency keeps from us Myra. It could be troves of precious information.”

“That would be quite the act of censorship, to exclude from any book in the library a mention of a city Sarapen, and deaths of an important enough caliber to end an era and warrant the building of a monument.”

“Ah, Myra, you prance around the fact that none have read as much as I in the grand library of ours. If this censorship does in fact exist, it was never completed to totality, as mentions of the old city certainly do exist, however fleeting they are.”

“I never know where your fables finish and the truth begins Calmasis.”

“Precisely Myra, why must there be such a distinct line? At that point, at the base of the obelisk, I recalled the story of serapen.”

“I -”

“I know you are interested Myra so I will tell you everything I thought whilst standing there.

“Hundreds, if not a thousand or more years ago, where Syrs Gnelph now lays in the river basin, a different community thrived. It was the city of Serapen. Details of Serapen are not clear, but we do know that the fabled First Complacency presided over it. I imagined the streets sprawling out from that central location, the hub of city. I imagined a young child skipping their way down one of those roads to get to the heart of their beloved neighborhood. The breeze blows softly and the sun shines gently. Once they reach the grand square, however, the irenic atmosphere is stunted. In the epicenter, upon a built platform seemingly made for just this occasion, three looming figures stand. They are of course, members of the First Complacency. The very first generation of the First Complacency, in fact. The mood that hangs around the three vaulted persons, staring unspeakingly at each other is tense, and the child, along with every other citizen in close proximity, is frozen with trepidation. One grows a wicked smile on their face, and in an instant, the number of pairs of feet anchored to the platform in a stubborn manner fall to one. The other two Complacency members have become deceased. A man tells the child the long story of what happened here, and when he is finished, tells him to run along home, and quickly. It is mutually known throughout the city that this is ‘an end of an era’. The killer flees, though no one saw him run, like an illusionist. An illusionist who has worked for years to hone his eye fooling skills, and has finally mastered the trade. This illusionist struggled for many an act, fumbling with their tricks. Set on pulling off their grand scheme to awe the world, they set off to work. They were supported by a loving significant other, and some hometown fans. Finally, they pulled off their spectacular stunt and was never seen again.

“So,” Myra finally spoke up, while the duo rounded the corner into a starkly clearer area, as if entering a meadow in the middle of a tottering-stall made forest, where one could see clearly for the first time on their long trek, with a sense of peace at the exposure to the open air, “the killer, a member of the storied First Complacency, was an illusionist?”

“To my knowledge, only metaphorically,” Cal explained, keeping to the fringe of the clearing as they meandered on, becoming lost in the sea of citizens seemed more palatable to the white haired student, “though I would not be surprised if someone with as much Magyykal prowess as a First Complacency member could really pull off such stunning illusions.”

“I suppose. And you thought of all of this whilst standing at the obelisk?” Myra’s skepticalness seemed almost feigned, as if the taller student had realized the futility of finding fault in her friend’s tales any longer. 

Calmasis spoke quite over-assuredly, “Yes of course.”

“You have not explained how you came to acquire that facial gash in any case.”

“Oh, I just haven’t gotten to that part of the story yet Myra. Have patience.”

“You know me to be quite patient Calmasis.”

“It is a virtue.”

From their spot in the market, traipsing the periphery of the clearing, Myra’s altitudinous advantage over Calmasis allowed her to acquire a line of sight to the various apexes of buildings that rose up bonily above the stalls and the crowds. She took in the sight of one particular peculiar feature of this peaking skyline. An ebony mass perched upon a roof’s acme, wide at the the top and tapered off to where it was attached at it’s base. The form completed an all encompassing grayscale that the sky was painted with, bringing a stark contrast to the tumultuous lighter tones of the clouds that seemed much too low above. A cutlass of a curved appendage jutted out from the form’s top, looking as if it was every bit as capable of stabbing as it was cutting. The thin light sent out from the clouds made the mass’ feathered surface iridesce not dissimilarly to the students of the Complacency’s own robes. This fixture of the skyline had not moved in any measure of time that Myra knew to understand.

Calmasis, unusually uninterested in their surroundings, or perhaps presenting some other supernormal quality of being able to focus on multiple topics of interests at the same moment, broke Myra’s fixation on the raven on the roof, “I acquired this gash in a quite vexing way in fact Myra. It may be gruesome, are you sure you want to hear?”

“My original inquisition so long ago was to the nature of the circumstances giving you that wound. So in a word. Yes.”

“Alright. I was standing, admiring the tar black obelisk, in all it’s mesmerizing beauty and virtiligous stupor. The air drifted gray and stony, much as it does now. So extremely lost in thought was I, that I had no sense of the passage of time. Suddenly I was hit in the face by a stone that flew from a nearby window. I bled profusely.”

Myra sighed loudly enough to be heard above the chaotic ambience of the market, and attracted more wandering glares. “I trust you were able to sufficiently stop the bleeding and clean the wound. Or must I help you in the latter respect.”

“My wonderful mother took care of it, of course. Always supplying the help I need most.”

Having after such an extrapolated amount of time finally reached the purpose of their topic of discussion, Calmasis remembered the original motive for making the peregrination to the domain they now stood astutely in the center of. Their head whirled back and forth looking for a adequate candidate for questioning. Down a clogged path to their right was a tall man, standing steadfastly over a display of rather large fish, which appeared to be as greasy as his own skin. His waterproof trousers were cartoonishly suspended from his shoulders, with enough space left between body and trouser to possibly serve as a vessel for transporting the day’s catch to this stall. A graying beard stuck out in odd angles from his chin, and strangely contrasted his slicked hair on the top of his head. He gave the appearance of a veteran of the market, having sold his precious marine creatures for many more years than any other near him, and making quite the comfortable living. A perfect candidate for questioning about matters of the market. Calmasis walked to the stall next stall, selling misshapen wood products overseen by a small, crookedly boned man instead

“What has lead you to take up shop here in the grand market?” Calmasis asked before the man had any time to realize two children had stood before him and his wares.

Startled, the man took a moment to process the situation. His eyes, slightly protruding from his face and faintly cloudy, darted between the two cloaked students in front of his counter, and the general area around them, to see if he was being tricked somehow. Finally he settled his gaze back on the one who asked the question, and answered in a croaking voice, “Well son, you know, I always,” the answerer licked his lips in a startlingly circular fashion, “I always enjoyed… the people,” his eyes darted to and fro in the background behind Cal and Myra, “And as long as they’re getting goods from me, they like to have me here.” Myra sidled nearer to Calmasis.

“I see,” Calmasis mulled over this response, and inquired further, “Do you associate with other members of the market’s packed peddling ground.”

“Oh, I got me one friend, you know. Teka over there. You know Teka,” the shopkeep shakily raised an abnormally bony finger, pointing to a hunched man, skin weathered and work beaten, selling scrap metal, but displaying it as if it was fine jewelry. He was making broad sweeping motions with his stocky arms over his wares, “You know Teka,” the carpenter repeated.

“Is that all?” Cal pushed further, leaning forward as if supported by some unseen limb in front. Among all the spectacular traits Calmasis possesses, a phantom limb made for supporting one while leaning forward is certainly the strangest, save perhaps for their ability to write with two hands in opposite directions at the same time, but only with words longer than five letters. Myra kept a watchful eye on her partner and the one they sought to glean information from.

“Hm? Oh, are you trying to see if I’m part of that… union thing. The Merchant Collective thing, you know,” the seller of misshapen wood object tipped his chin slightly upwards at the assumption.

Calmasis, already having had accessed some knowledge gained from their uncle, but seeking to know more, feigned a question, “Merchant Collective?”

The carpenter, having assumed Calmasis was hardly more than an uninformed child, explained, “Yeah yeah, bunch of people like myself work with our people’s government, to get better at selling stuff I guess. I’m not a part of it though. I don’t trust people conspiring together like that. Going against the Complacency’s wishes sometimes too. Risky stuff if you ask me. I want no business with it.”

“How many of you merchants are part of the collective?” Cal leaned farther forward, as if being sucked into the conversation. Now this was a truly interesting vein of information that could warrant extended conversation.

“Oh, I don't know… some… a few…,” answered the shopkeeper scratching at his malgrowing facial hair.

“Interesting. Thank you very much for your time.” Calmasis spun on their heels and walked off down the path. Myra followed.

Navigating their way through the path nearly suffocated with chaotically placed stalls and haphazardly wandering patrons, it was easy for the pair to go into a brief state of panic at losing sight of eachother. Or rather, Calmasis would trek onward, oblivious to the small man walking next to them far too close for comfort, whilst Myra’s anxiety levels would skyrocket in trying to warn her friend, but instead be glanced out of whisper-distance by countless marketgoers. They always ended up together at the close of the ordeal. Cal was usually unharmed. Most of the time.

A slight change of scenery to one of large crates, calloused laborers, docks, and flatbed freighting boats ahead indicated that Calmasis and Myra had arrived at the river bank, or more specifically, the market, and likewise the city’s port. The symphony of the heart of the market, one of shouting peddlers, bargains being negotiated, and people murmuring about the latest items, gave way to the symphony of laborers calling orders, dropping heavy crates, and river vessels ringing in a chorus of town hall bells.

Over this mesh of symphonies, some dissonance could be heard. Widespread attention snapped to a captain of a low flat cargo freighter, who, if not for the uniformed officials on the dock beside, would have tranquilly ridden the coursing flow of the river, fastened to a cleat, and unmoving, watching dock workers haul off his shipped crates.

The captain, sporting flaxen trimmed rosy jacket, asserted loudly to the officials on the dock, “You can’t make me change my prices, I’m profiting well with the current ones. My business is running smoothly as ever.”

The official’s response was inaudible, the speaker, appearing to be their leader, kept a stony, unriled expression, not raising his voice in a calculated show of authority. Calmasis and Myra, quite intrigued, made their way closer to the altercation. Myra decided she needed to look for a peddler selling leashes for her friend.

“I won’t budge, I need the money. This is literally my livelihood!” the captain held onto his lapels with large, worked hands, and raised his chin. His weightful feet stood firmly on the slightly mobile deck of the freighter.

On the dock, the official’s refutation raised to volume enough to ascertain the ordered aggression in his voice, although precisely what was said was unclear. He took a step forward from the ranks of his comrades, but kept his arms firmly stationary at his sides, as if his stiff outfit prohibited him from moving.

Clearly whatever was said escalated the altercation to quite a degree, as evidenced by the sudden expression of affrontement the captain now wore, “Apprehend me? What for? You can’t send me away, it’s the busiest time of the week! I need to meet my expenses! These people need their shipments.”

A small crowd materialized out of the chaos of the marketplace, of which Calmasis and Myra found themselves snugly at the bow. Front row seats in the world’s most discordant theatre. Murmurings could be heard all around, most loudly by a man in yellow and blue who looked as if he had been crying recently, with rumors of fledgling legislation the captain had yet to be alerted to. Fledgling legislation completely unsupported by the the merchant populace, and by extension, everyone who bought from them.

The lead officer stood staring unblinkingly at the captain for a period of time that was deemed by the stared at to be quite uncomfortable. He then finally made use of the arms held so stiffly at his sides and motioned to several of the similarly uniformed men behind him on the dock. Three stepped forward, one fumbling at their waist as if looking for keys long lost in their pocket. The captain made no attempt to stop them as they took swoopingly large steps onto the deck beside him. The one that had lost their keys produced a metallic device, thin and shining in the dull light. Prying both ends of the contraption open and holding them outwards from their body, they turned towards the captain. A look of terror drained the blood from his round face, yet he stood firm in his entrenchment on the dock. 

The other two officials seized the captain’s meaty gray coated arms. They grappled with him for several moments before the one holding the glinting metal device stepped forwards incontestably. The captain’s thick leathery wrists were lowered, and with a flash the device’s menacing purpose was carried out. The captain was clasped and bound by the cuffs, which visibly dug into his flesh.

The two non-device wielding officials kept their grip on the captain’s arms, and roughly directed him off his boat and onto the dock. As he passed the one who had ordered his apprehension, he cried to the officials face, “This is unjust sir, I’ll have you know. My children… what will they do...” and then finally before being quieted “... I won't be held long.”

The roof crow was unmoved by this turn of events, as it always was.


	5. The Past Will Ever Bear Just Cause For Remembering, Especially by Those Who Refuse to Let Go of It

Myra let out another condensated breath into the hiemal air as the captain was ferried by, much like the crates on his boat, separating the two friends from eachother momentarily. The cloud that rose from her mouth obscured her vision, though she could hear the increased agitation of the mass of marketgoers around her. The crowd constricted around the bound man and his binders like a serpent around a particularly strife filled mouse. All nine officials constructed a barrier with their persons to force their way through and preserve custody of their catch. Myra turned to see each official's wide hats bob through the tumultuous audience, which had multiplied in size since she had last observed. Truly, this was the world’s most discordant theatre.

Once even Myra’s stunning height attribute was rendered useless in the task of being able to get a look at the distancing officials, she turned her attention back to Calmasis, and briefly panicked, as she could not see them. The large man standing in her way cleared and she was met with what should have been a comforting sight.

Should have.

Calmasis’ owl gaze remained transfixed on the wooden slab docking spit where the altercation had arisen and flighted. Their cold, darkening alabaster dermal palette, not to mention slate eyes and spiderweb hair, made for a disarrangement of metaphorical bodily comparisons that when coupled with a similar amount of motion as one would carry out while laid in a coffin, allowed Calmasis to reclaim the previously stated appearance of a rivetingly boring realistic sculpture in an art gallery. It was as if the semi-algid air had finally taken it’s toll (further a frightening concept to poor Myra). Unmotioning, unmoving, unshifting, unstirring, un-any other word that could be found as a synonym for “move” on merriam-webster.com/thesaurus. I’m sure Calmasis’ stillness has been aptly communicated.

The point of their interest, the docks, seemed a spot of abnormal fixation, even for Camasis’ constantly calculating brain. Nothing of interest was occurring there any longer, nor had been for some amount of time. Myra inferred that they had not even turned when the officials transported the captain directly past them.

“Calmasis,” she called softly, voice being devoured by the rumblings of the crowd. Recognizing the futility of such endeavors, Myra pulled herself up a little straighter, and smoothed her cloak front, as if massaging the cold ripples of green out of it. She strode the single step gap that separated them and raised a jade flashing arm.

“Calmasis,” Myra spoke with more force now, bringing the arm to an arrival on her partner’s statuelike shoulder. Calmasis remained in the state described in detail just so previously.

Committing both upper appendages to the cause now, Myra spread her stance wide and shook the solid marble that made up her friend’s artfully poised body with all the might that her slight constitution, drowned in thick garments in the impedingly cold weather, could muster. A brilliant shimmer of greens eddyed at the near violent, deliberately executed motion, which ended on a force forward from the quake-maker’s direction, sending the one sustaining the seismic repetitions to the ground autumnally. Myra stumbled forward as well in the excess of her exertion, maintaining her footed status just barely with several rapid steps over and around the felled work of art.

It could be observed now, had Myra not been quite so absorbed in her folly of an attempt at rousing her friend, that a certain tertiary listener had returned. Unfortunately, one statue and one distressed friend happened to not be shining candidates for poignant dialogue. A sorry sight to the listener, now really only a watcher, from the lengths away that their wide glaringness stood sentinel. Furthermore into the asingularity of being peered upon in the center of a busy plaza,the mess of two companions on the beaten cobbles of the market laid also in the gaze of the raven so high above. Winglessness allowed the bird to share a statuicity attribute with Calmasis, or rather them with it, since, as mentioned in Myra’s train of thought prior to this chapter’s incidents, the raven had been aperch it’s position on the roof’s precipice longer than she knew. Though the hierarchy of holding an attribute is normally intrinsically independent from any temporal scale, making the raven no more of an original holder of the statuicity attribute than Calmasis, despite the fact that it had been attributed that way for a much longer time than they. Secondly, there is quite the caveat to the prior statement in relation to Calmasis and their usual tendencies of motion. Which is to say, is limited at best.

The raven, however, ignored this strange characterization laden reference to a caveat in Calmasis’ state of being, while also capitalizing on the aforementioned atemporality -though applied differently now- to scan through other events that had encumbered it’s line of sight over the market over such a long time.

The memory of a grim day was recalled at the sight of a child stark still on the ground. A day where a different child, though this one possessing similarly devoid of life skin, made an uncontrollable exuberance of harsh noises, wherein the lining of the throat would be severely abraised. The violent coughs continued until the boy lay on the same cobbles one does now, seemingly only able to move any longer as a convulsion from their paroxysms. The child’s mother, whose once held hand had been abandoned at the onset of such ferocious symptoms, set her exposed knees to the ground, and attempted to rouse her ailing spawn. The child shook like a particularly devastating earthquake. An earthquake that assaults an unsuspecting fishing village perched on some rocks and a fault, wherein the citizens are quietly supping for the night in their unsteady homes. Thatched roofs and hollow supports crumble at the seismic force, leaving a certain hard working man without a place to rest his head, along with many other inhabitants. Rebuild, or relocate? The question they now face is not an easy one, but one they must answer to survive.

The child on the ground garners a small audience in the continually characterized loudest theatre in the world. His coughs do not cease, and the crowd draws ever nearer. How close is close enough?

At length, the crowd begins to dissipate, bored out of lack of change more than lack of action. The child continues to cough, otherwise immobile on the ground, and their mother continues to weep, and cry for help. One pitying soul hears her cries, and makes a decision, and a quite daring one at that. With a word of unnecessarily vague reassurance to the one knelt over her child, the pitying soul dashes from the spot. The dread filled mother drops to the ground in sobs, obviously, she has been abandoned.

Through the mazes of the beehive, the man who had just given the mother his cryptic and trepidatious word sprints outward down streets leading from the market. Faces pass in a blur and alarm at his expeditious expedition, creating a whirlwind of ambulating worker bees in his wake. A suffocating force was put on by the city, the man felt. He must push free to help the child.

Like a ball breaking through a glass pane, the man ejected himself from the city onto the border road. The ball had just been pitched at record breaking speed, hard enough to frighten the opponent from even attempting a rebuttal. The ball had sailed past, and straight through the window, with glass shards raining everywhere, and it was absolutely covered in those glass shards at the time of it’s landing on some unnecessarily choleric elder’s rot eaten floor. All hope for retrieving that ball are as shattered as the window now, unless the pitcher decides to face a beration. The pitcher most certainly does not, and leaves the ball for dead. Although a ball cannot be “dead”. In any case, it will stay where it is until some outside force influences it, which is a seminal law of physics.

The man, however, is in fact not actually a ball, and is in fact now looking up the hill at the grand Palace Of The Complacency. The building’s towers tower overhead and seem to defeat the clouds in their loftiness. The same clouds seem shredded by the towers’ sharp points, and the color bled from these wounds fills the walls of the imposing building. Even the massive windows of the dome of the library steal all color from the dense condensation above, in a reflectious moving image, prohibiting sight into the book filled atrium. Towards the cloud stealing manse the man trotted, his trepidation ever growing, threatening to consume.

Familiar cobblestones, of the path to the palace rather than covering the ground of the market, were hastily trodden, decreasing in slope until reaching the crown of the near parabolic hill. The path shortened itself as the man progressed, causing the imperial wooden masterpieces of doors set in the front of the palace scale ever larger in their intimidating and high rising awesomeness.

The man took several insufficiently substantial breaths to steel himself for the task at hand, and after removing them from his knees, raised his hand to move the ponderous white marble knocker. The sound it acousted was enough to turn most away, especially an unnerved, out of breath man such as this. The sound that followed after, however was more fright inspiring than one could even predict from the forebodingness of the knocker.

A great grumbling resounded from beyond the door. Being weakened at the knees, the man was sent sailing aside with the it’s forceful throwing open shortly after the noise became audible. The figure that walked forth was in the mean of grumbling some lengthy complaint. The figure, seeing no creature that had knocked their door, continued their grumbling at an increased irritancy.

After several moments recovery, the man spoke from beyond the flung door.

“Oh dear reverential, awe inspiring member of our storied, grandiose, excellent, insurmountable, Complacency of the Learned, will you be so pitiful on some of us citizens to use your unfathomable Magyyk to heal one who ails to the point of death in the market so far below?”

The Complacent turned towards the voice. They spoke at the door, “Why should one with such important duties such as I take the time to abandon my work to help an arbitrary citizen, who do in fact die every day to unaidable causes, you know.”

“Oh my Complacent,” the man pleaded, still immobile on the ground behind the great door, “It would be most merciful of you. I fear the child could infect the vast populace, as he coughs into the dense crowds of the market. The citizens would certainly be forever thankful that you helped them avert a disaster.”

The Complacent pondered this for a moment, with some further low grumblings concerning dwindling public appreciation. At length a decision was attained, “I shall dispatch none other than myself, Krecorc, the now to be Healer, to bring life and good health to this child and many others henceforth!”

“Thank you, dear Krecorc the Healer, the boy should still lay in the market, his mother weeps over his convulsing body,” the man gave these final tips, and promptly lost consciousness. The door was swung closed by an opposite direction facing Krecorc, who made haste to the market.

Reverence abounded as the luxuriously attired woman of Magyyk strode her way through ranks of citizens, down pallid streets. The chaos of the clustered and cluttered city seemed unremarkable in the presence of such a person. Upon the arrival at the market, a sea was parted to allow Krecorc clear passage wherever she walked. Not bothering to ask for direction, the Healer meandered until she spotted the clearing in the crowd where a mother wept. Krecorc marched her way to the woman, and peered down at her, chin remaining pointed skyward.

“I am told your child-” the Healer was cut off by the clangorous coughs of the child, then cautiously resumed, “-...is ailing.”

The mother slowly turned from her offspring and spoke through exhaustion from sobbing, “Yes, oh, have you come to heal them? Oh that would be most gracious of you…”

“Yes I have come to do so,” Krecorc gathered her cloak up in a swooping motion, “Stand back, weeping mother, I will perform the most highly potent Healing Magyyk.”

Reluctantly, the mother stood, and back slowly from her child, still racked with coughs, seemingly unaware of the current happenings. Krecorc gathered her cloak several more times, which appeared to be a superfluous amount of cloak gathering to any onlookers. However, unbeknownst to commoners, she had begun her Magyykal casting. From her cloak was produced a source of mesmerizing light in each hand, one a the color of an orange chrysanthemum, the other, a green chrysanthemum. She began a series of motions, meticulously carried out over the child, who, possibly out of politeness for the proceedings, had taken an extended recess between coughing fits, and was straining their tired eyes to catch a glimpse of the lightshow so close above them.

Several minutes into the routine, the lights suddenly went dark and the hands they had been held in were quickly shoved back into the cloak they had been produced from. Krecorc turned to the observers and spoke in a well projected voice, “This child has been healed. My Magyyk has never fai-”

Another fit of coughing caused the Healer to spin on her heels with widened eyes. The child was certainly still ailing. They looked ashamed where they lay on the ground.

Krecorc turned again slowly, and stated with just as much confidence as the original rendition, “My Magyyk has never failed before, and there is no reason to believe it will presently. The child will stop coughing in the near future and will be free of whatever sickness racks their body at that point.”

The Complacent strode off once more in the direction of her palace. Several more coughs were heard in the distance.

In the days forthcoming, the child’s coughing did certainly come to anticlimactic end. Their breath was ever shorter and the act of participating in athletics was always strained, but they had been healed, as the Complacent had said would take place. Her service was needed hundreds more times in the following months, as a plague that had catalysed in that very child swept through the city. Nearly every person she performed her Magyyk on was healed in the same way as the first. Krecorc rightly gained her self-given moniker of the Healer.

Events such as the Great Plague of Serapen were recorded in a select few books in the Complacency’s library, the most reliable, or rather, the most extensive source being penned by Krecorc the Healer herself. A certain disciple of Zazzerpan the Learned would, in more narratively contemporary temporal engagements, peruse the accounts held in this ancient tome. For necessary further clarification of the previous statement, that disciple now lay in the raven’s view, and in nearly the very same spot as the child had fallen so many years ago at that.  
Calmasis, always at a thirst, and in their demandingly educational position, occasionally a need, for knowledge, had found this particular volume in a study of general medical practices in the city’s history. They, in their ever unsparing intellect, had deduced that the practices seemingly were invented on that day so many years ago, and had curiously, and to varying degrees of effectiveness, gone mostly unchanged since. Varying being the operative word, as a Magyyk used to cure a plague induced cough is far less practical when treating a broken bone. Nevertheless, Magyykal Healers had been trained by the Complacency, or in more recent times by others who had learned from the Complacency, for centuries to help the city’s ailing.

Oh the implications.

Calmasis, having finished running this and many other thoughts through their lace topped head, shifted their weight on the ground of the market. What an undignified mess.


	6. Supplementary Works

"Calmasis’ owl gaze remained transfixed on the wooden slab docking spit where the altercation had arisen and flighted. Their cold, darkening alabaster dermal palette, not to mention slate eyes and spiderweb hair, made for a disarrangement of metaphorical bodily comparisons that when coupled with a similar amount of motion as one would carry out while laid in a coffin, allowed Calmasis to reclaim the previously stated appearance of a rivetingly boring realistic sculpture in an art gallery. It was as if the semi-algid air had finally taken it’s toll (further a frightening concept to poor Myra). Unmotioning, unmoving, unshifting, unstirring, un-any other word that could be found as a synonym for “move” on merriam-webster.com/thesaurus. I’m sure Calmasis’ stillness has been aptly communicated." [chapter 5] 

//////////////////////////////////////////

 _The Transition House_  
Unknown Author, found written on a loose sheet of paper in a copy of _A History of the East_ in the Gnelph Understreet Library

You walk up to the lot, admiring the thinness of the lines the structure standing before you seems to be composed of. Sharp edges, drawn with the sickly non precise precision that only a unique artist could make look appealing. All around the base of the buildings odd angles and thicknesses, are rose bushes, drawn similarly. Their brambles seem neverending, a twist and turn of squiggles and invaried weight. The roses themselves stick out in color among the mess of their convoluted stem systems and the backdrop of the weary house. A covered porch stretches crookedly around the lower level of the house, starting in the front at a section of the building jutting forward, and trailing off behind to an unknown end. On the wall within the porch lie 2 windows, both with blinds drawn, although a crack of the inside shines through to you the viewer on the outside. In between these two glass panes is the doorway to the house, with a modest set of stair leading up to the porch space in front of it.

You love the look of this magnificent house. Just taking in its gentle but odd features brings you a sense of vague happiness. You want more than anything to go inside, to see what it is like to live there, if the inside is just as endorphin coaxing as the outside.

There are two problems with this though. One is the fact that you don’t know how to get in. The door is locked [you haven’t tried the handle yet but there is no reason to believe that a random house would just leave its door unlocked], and each window is closed, save one you can tell is slightly ajar, possibly from a warped frame. There may be other entrances around the side, but it would be a bold move to go searching around this house, and people might think your actions are quite odd.

The other problem is that of your friend standing next to you. They seem to not be nearly as interested in the house as you are. In fact, they seem to see a wholly different structure standing before them. It is one that is drawn with straight hard lines and solid colors. Where you see the rose bushes they see a sturdy fence. They think going inside the house may be as you describe it, however they think it would be quite out of line to enter. They’ve heard stories about the people who live in this house. They are strange, and don’t follow conventional rules. Even as you try to tell your friend that you have met some of these people, and think that they are just like anyone else [and hinting at the fact that maybe you and them are not so different], your friend shuts down the idea. This house is too weird for me, they say. Please let’s just leave it, and forget about your silly delusions of it being rose covered and pink.

Though you don't show it very much you are very hurt by this statement. Your friend starts to walk away but you stay rooted to the spot. In one of the windows, you notice a face. At first you are a bit startled but the face is not a malicious one. Since you clearly are showing interest in the house they live in, the face decides to move from the window, open the front door and walk out on the porch [whence of course you see it is not just a face but in fact an entire person. A resident of this house. And a very attractive one at that.]

The house dweller beckons you to the porch steps, supposedly to start a conversation. You are quite nervous, as you have never spoken to someone who calls this house their home before, even though you admire them so. [Their lovely face does nothing to ease your nerves]. As you take steps closer, the roses appear to bloom even wider with richer colors than before and the house’s bluish tint on the pink siding completely fades. Your intrigue for what it is like to live in this house is higher than ever before, when the house dweller begins to talk. They happily, although a bit shyly, ask you what you think of their house. You say, of course how intrigued by it you are, and it seems they know exactly what you mean by that. Quietly [as your friend has only walked a couple paces away], they begin to explain how they came across this house, and what transpired for them to be able to live in it. Much of the house dwellers story is strongly relatable to you, which gives you higher hopes you may be able to get inside. You softly, almost embarrassedly, explain how you found the house yourself. It’s a story of being lost and confused, when slowly, at the recommendation of some distant friends, you saw it peeking out through the mess, the pink siding much more faded and the roses only buds, but still the house was inviting as ever. The house dweller shows much sympathy, and you both acknowledge how similar your stories were.

The house dweller invites you to see what the inside of the house looks like. You are hesitant. You can still see your friend on the sidewalk just a couple yards away, and you are sure they are already suspicious of you talking to this person. Who knows what they’ll think if you actually enter the house. They might never talk to you again.

However, you confirm on the house dwellers request, and follow them as their warm face smiles and leads you up the porch steps to the front door. You check to see if your friend is still watching. They are not.

The house dweller opens the door with it’s shiny polished handle, and you both nearly jump inside before your friend has a chance to turn around _{end of manuscript, presumably unfinished}_

//////////////////////////////////////////

 _Idiocy_  
Adapted from _A Pelinchritudinous Affair Bound Eastward_ by Ega Tinal

The edificial condemnation  
Of the legal doctrines in which  
Sempiternally, Ever Burningly  
In Similarity to clay or putty in Malleability  
Stands still like a stone  
Oh how they do groan  
And sit quietly in their given seat

//////////////////////////////////////////

//////////////////////////////////////////

 _Progress is Made When Change is Nurtured, Shackles on Ingenuity are Shackles on Life,_ or, _Progressivicissity_  
Adapted from _A Pelinchritudinous Affair Bound Eastward_ by Ega Tinal

A tool to hold a candle  
A grip to bring a flame  
To the darkest depths  
Where, behest,  
The demons they will tame  
Are ones that have so lived  
In ever fearing Trepidation  
For time and time and time again,  
They are smeared by the Machinations  
And Inner Workings  
So fastly held unnoticing  
So fluidly held frozen  
So powerful be the captors  
So strong be the wardens  
By Attributes and Achievements of their own, of course  
However, the weight of temporally magnified Stillness  
So vast and unfathomable  
Binds the demons,  
As demons they are deemed to be,  
One acquires this moniker once they push  
Into the unknown  
And never holds their ideals  
To the flame held by a grip  
of a Beast Tamer, of a People Freer,  
Of a Fluid Freezer  
Of an Imprisoner of All Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, additional works to go along with the narrative of Complacency of the Learned.


	7. A Lengthily Awaited Bout Of Enthusiastically Insensate Conversations

On the pitiless yet well trodden ground of the market, Calmasis finally stirred, much to the mild elation of the watcher in the distance, whose eyes bore at the pair of cloaked friends as heavily, yet unnoticed as ever.

Despite the unbeheld gaze, Myra knelt contentedly on the ground beside her friend. Her cloak fanned out over the ground, creating a near circular region of black mass and green inflected hills. A painting could be made from this picturesque scene, though the strange art gallery metaphor is already well extrapolated and would not go nicely being reiterated. Myra faced away from Calmasis presently, as staring at them for the entire time they lay there would seem quite odd. Thus, she did not notice the slight stirring.

Calmasis sat up, cradling where they had impacted some time before. At the speed of a Leknan Speedbeast, their mouth shot open and words poured out. One might think this to be an outpouring of some kind wealth of innate, well prepared knowledge, and though it was, it was wholly unorganized and far too expeditiously uttered to be received by any ear. Myra started at the loud utterance from her friend who had been silent for so long, and spun to face them, turning her circle of robes into a spiral of green.

Calmasis finished their fountaining and blinked passively at Myra, who did little more than likewise in return. Slowly, they looked around at the clamour of the market, which had only increased in the time they had been unobservational. Turning back to their companion, they spoke intelligibly for the first time in quite a stretch relative consciousness.

“I would like to eat something from that shop there,” they pointed to the one they referred to, “The one with things on sticks.” The woman behind the counter smiled a greasy smile, noticing the pointing from the child who had laid in sight of her shop for so long that day. She gestured to her things on sticks.

///

Moments later, sticks in hand, Calmasis and Myra made their way in a direction outward facing from the market. Although no source of light was able to be specifically discerned through the clouds, the day was drawing towards its horizon, and subsequently the air chilled even further. Two pairs of gloves were procured from the already aptly described colored black folds of Myra’s cloak. Heather and soft, they stretched over her slender fingers to supply an formidable aegis against the chill. Calmasis, taking the pair designated to them by their companion, was met with a quite dissimilar, yet sourly familiar experience, wherein the gloves were made into loose clumps of fabric generally congregating around their hand in odd places, making the their sustenance stick ever harder to hold. They resigned to holding it with both amorphously gloved appendages, and even still each bite was a challenge to take.

The two reached the river serving as the eastern border of the market, and came to the bridge that would allow their passage to the other half of the city. As the singular connection in the very beating heart of the bustling city (for there were others in other locations), this bridge stood nearly as well trodden as the market it branched from on one grounding point. A multitude of dark stone arches thinly jutted from the water, creating an almost cephalopodic appearance of limbs dangling as supports from the road held on top. On each side, at the top of the arc over the river, the bridge held a sort of bubble of stone from the rail bounding the sides, each of the two bubbles containing, one looking over the river, one facing each other across the road, the crest of Syrs Gnelph

The crest of Syrs Gnelph is quite the sight to behold, as any who had ever looked upon it would surely tell you. It prominently features a semicircle forming the top, two more similar shapes growing from the firsts sides, though these much smaller, and in between those, four columns protruding from the bottom half. Within the positive space of this design are fire-like tendrils, reaching from right to left, and vice versa, so that the middle is left a zigzagging divide. On the left side of this divide lies not much more than a simple diamond shape, quadranted by a vertical and horizontal line, each quadrant sending a small line further out from it’s center, so that it seems and “X” is made outside the diamond. The right side makes display a circle, with six points, small triangles, going from it’s sides. Another circle, unobstructed by triangular points, lies within the confines of the first.

Calmasis and Myra had seen this symbolism many times before, as had most other citizens of the city, especially those who lived near the river. The river largely marked the boundary between the two halves of Syrs Gnelph, which logically hold the seperative individual names: Syrs, and Gnelph. Syrs was the larger of the two, where the market was located, and which ran to a march with the Border Road around the Complacency’s hill. Calmasis lived snugly in the confines of this half of the city. The other segment here connected was a bit foreign to those of the first half. Instead of having curling, lightly colored hair and dark eyes like historic Syrs residents, the “immigrants” of Gnelph regularly had glossy jet black hair, and brightly colored eyes. “Immigrants” is not a justly applicable word however, as the citizens who live there have for many generations, some would even say as long as those inhabiting Syrs. Though, this half of the city was never the one to have any dominance, and thus their smaller numbers and lack of as much history had deemed them “immigrants” by advantage seeking Syrs citizens. Contradictorily, one might observe that terms seemingly slanderous such as these do not hold much evidence of the apparent collective thoughts of the commoner living here on either side of the river. West and East get along quite unabrasively at the broader level.

The two companions, having crossed the bridge into Gnelph arrived at a humbly ornate cast iron and wood bench, which stretched from the ground as if it had just emerged from it and was trying to break free. The bench was secured to the ground in front of a building that shot into the gray sky with pointed peaks on it’s roof at every extreme end, of which there happened to be five. Five is a rather large number of peaks of the ends of roofs, so it is evident that this building was important indeed. Above the door read “Gnelph Minor Meeting Hall”, which is the only form of meeting hall Gnelph could have. This is not to be seen as discriminatory, as Syrs too only has a “minor meeting hall”, but within Syrs, the entire city’s “chief meeting hall” is housed as well. The chief hall is not described as attributed to Syrs because it is not chiefly in control of the citizens. The “Chief Meeting Hall of the City of Syrs Gnelph’s Lawpersons” is the workplace of the Complacency’s designated officials who enforce their oligarchicly decided commands throughout the city. In fact, Calmasis and Myra had just caught a healthy eyeful of a few of these very officials, carting away that poor law misabiding captain. However, it may surprise you to learn that the captain in fact _had_ been abiding by laws he subscribed to. Those laws were laws made in this “minor meeting house” and too in Syr’s counterpart. They were laws made somewhat unofficially, but considerably favorably for them such as the captain. The ones who made these such laws are the product of the aforementioned lack of animosity between halves of the city. A governing body of elected citizens hails from both halves, with nearly completely mutual interest. A common man’s built government. A federal force beneficial to the masses.

Cal and Myra sat on the bench, facing a number of tall crooked buildings that loomed over the street like particularly rickety giants, using their splintery outlines to creep on space that, had they been built somewhat more geometrically logically, they had no just cause to occupy. Opposite the bench loomed a particular building, bearing a brittle-looking sign dangling on unstable looking crude chains from a spit of wood that rested just below a visually unpenetratable window. The sign read “Agsafo: Food for the Tired”.

One would think that a vendor so near the hub of all things being sold in the city would be quite at a loss for businesses in its unfavorable location. One would be quite wrong however, as citizens of both Syrs and Gnelph alike both frequently fled the chaotic claustrophobia of the market, to traverse the crested bridge and seek some solace in the smaller half of the city. Thus, Agsafo was a popular end of day destination, and in fact, Calmasis and Myra had been within a small throng of marketgoers seeking the homely peace that it provided at the end of a tiring time in the world’s loudest theatre.

As a pastime, and a distraction from the strife that was attempting to eat while donning the ill fitting gloves, Calmasis watched individuals come and go from buildings, and Agsafo, across from them. First they locked in on a stout looking person, filling out their summer leaf colored coat very satisfyingly, and exuding an aura of confidence. Their features were soft but sure, and as they talked to the three persons that accompanied them into the restaurant, it was clear they had an essence of positive social standing with their peers. Behind them walked a lone squat figure. Or rather, hobbled. And quite aimlessly at that. This individual did not seem to be attempting to enter Agsafo or any of the other building fronts or alleyways it sat adjacent to. In a state of what seemed to be extreme discomfort, the figure dropped to the dirt covered concrete, as if playing an acorn falling from a strangely low tree. A mob of larger fellows moved in front of the hobbler and they were lost in the sea of bodies. Calmasis wondered briefly what their fate was, but moved attention to more present figures, though not forgetting the fallen one. In this mob towered a certain character, just a head above the rest, with features that drooped down their face as if their above average height increased the gravity on their body, and they were being sucked down at a stronger rate than their shorter counterparts. This character ducked, they did have to indeed lower their head, into the building to the right (from Cal’s perspective) of Agsafo, which bore no nominative sign. An office building of sorts perhaps? The only way to discern for certain would be to enter, which was an objective not necessarily at the forefront of Calmasis’ plans for the near future. Plans, which, if you were curious, are extensive, detailed, and extremely organized without ever having been scribed in a planner

Myra, having finished her stick-borne meal, and subsequently waiting, passively, not intently, observing Calmasis do the same, decided to make an inquiry as to something that had been on her mind for the time since Calmasis had returned from their familial abode. Giving their sigiled pack, which rested on their lap, hugged close as if it was a comforting plush creature, a sound examination, Myra ventured subtle inquiry, in her pleasingly rising and falling voice that laid far more consistently level on the soundscape than most voices would.

“Calmasis, if you are done eating presently, I have a question regarding your bag. It is noticeably occupied by items to a far greater extent than when we departed the palace this morning.”

After setting their newly nude skewer down beside them, Calmasis pulled the gloves as far onto their punitive fingers as they could for the preposterously high numbered time since they had first put them on, and followed with a line of speech much more flowing and less contradictory in the senses that their partner’s had been described.

“You are wondering what I could have possibly grafted from my family’s house that would take up so much space? I daresay, Myra, that is not necessarily a question I would expect, as one could come away from the house where their bloodline resides with a number of things, such as a supplement of food for the coming week, a well thought out gift to serve as a reminder of their love in their absence, perhaps mended or yet new clothing produced in caring thoughtfulness, even, if you care to imagine, the product of some such handicraft that only one within familial ties would have the privilege to acquiring for no cost where most would be pained to obtain. It would all seem quite unpeculiar, and relatedly, take up much space in one’s pack.”

“Hm,” Myra was hardly surprised at such an answer, more surprised at herself for not expecting it, to be quite honest. After a healthy roll of her eyes, she continued, “Calmasis I can see the clear outline of a book protruding from the mass of… items… in your pack. Would you care to inform as to the nature of this volume.”

Tracing the, as stated so duly by Myra, clear outline of book, that distorted the painted sigils on the dark canvas bound bag, Calmasis made a slow answer.

“This book’s nature is surely one I am fully interested in and I can assure you that it’s pages will be studied cover to cover in due time. I’ve read many books in my life, and none have interested me so much as this one, however-”

“You have no idea what is in that book do you,” Myra interrupted.

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘no idea’, I have quite a strong idea as to,-”

“How long have you had it?” Myra is certainly a character with laudable traits isn’t she. Virtuous, if I had to say so myself.

“Since this morning,” Calmasis finally solidified an answer, “Zazzerpan assigned it to me as a new… assignment… though he is not very direct about the nature of such “assignments”. I am to study it and report back.”

“I presume Old Zazzerpan has no clue as to what the book is about either.”

“I did ask once I was given the tome, and, unsurprisingly, he does not.”

“Quite the enigma this book is, isn’t it then. The two most learned persons in all of Syrs Gnelph haven’t the faintest idea what secrets it contains.”

“It would seem… so,” Calmasis made to remove the book from it’s cozy resting place. It was not an easy task as their digits still had not failed to be befuddled by the mask of fabric keeping them guarded against the hostile gelidity of the air.

//

“Zazzerpan I would like to know what you know about this book you have given me,” Calmasis stood, hands clasped around the book of interest, cloak shod to reveal a white flannel, buttoned up the sides to the arms with triangular black buttons, exaggeratedly collared, with more buttons of a similar kind holding this in place, and otherwise a featureless garment. Along with this, a grey skirt, loose, folding, and reaching the student’s calves. The garments combined to form a customary outfit for a pupil of the Complacency, though customized to Cal’s specific tastes.

“You have already established I know nothing, my student, why do you ask?” At an ornately unsquare desk, befitted with many manners of carvings, and only a small plane for any measures of work to be carried out on, in a matching chair, Zazzerpan slouched, hands pitched so each finger met an opposite fingertip. Light streamed through a select bunch of the multitude of palm sized holes bored through the thick walls of Cogency Tower, and seemed to shoot directly into his body, along with the furniture around him.

“Zazzerpan, you have had an answer to every question I have ever asked in all my time in your tutelage. And quite satisfyingly lengthy ones at that.” In fact, answers often finished long after Calmasis had already left the room with far more than their sought after knowledge stirring in their head, after conversations in which Calmasis had ceased talking relatively long ago. If this concept is difficult for you the reader to grasp, simply reread the structure of the current paragraph.

The Learned lifted a hand from it’s tented position and held it out in the direction of his student. “Let’s see then,” his voice tamed and slightly gruff, as if he was preparing for some trying task. In reality, providing knowledge was Zazzerpan’s most coveted and pleasurable pastime, just ahead of obtaining that knowledge in the first place. Calmasis transferred the weight of the tome from their small owl claws to Zazzerpan’s ancient unfurling scrolls of a grasping appendage.

As the book was far too heavy to hold with a singular, severely aged hand, it fell through light beams that punched through the room, and gave the autumnal object a scan as if with some kind of advanced technology. With a resounding boom, harkening memories of a certain solid portal being swung punctually shut, the book made contact with the desk. It had not fallen rightly, however, instead landing tiltedly on its sanguinely colored spine and causing the boom to become more diffuse as the two covers lolled aside, revealing a neatly cut, surprisingly white and evenly toned set of pages.

Prominent eyebrows raised, Zazzerpan observed the scene that his lack of physical competency had created. His deft eyes darted about the open valley and it’s accompanying rolling hill, sheering off into plateaus, and rounding off in red finally onto the desk. Before him on the hills lay a two dimensional environment wherein on each parabolic stretch of paper a rectangle containing smaller scenes outlined in black lines, colored to be locked in a grid. A stylistic rendering of a small child stood in the focus of the depiction, the style dictating simplicity and sparse use of color for emphasis. Underneath the rectangular illustration lay text in alternating vivid colors, which Zazzerpan did not bother to read this as he had already been made aware of the nature of this book.

Pulling himself up slightly, righting his posture which had been frozen in the immediacy of the pages before him revealing themselves, Zazzerpan shifted his examinatory gaze to his pupil, never altering the expression of heavy machination that took place within the space between his eyes and ears that was evident only when this particular expression was made, although in reality was everpresent in the Learned’s mind. Calmasis made no similar correction of stance, as even the suddenness of the pages’ grand display had not disturbed their physical state, in complete independence from their mental, which, in comparison, had not much been disturbed either. A simple flit upwards of line of sight from page to Learned was all that was required for Calmasis to continue the action of the scene.

The two -as a surprise only to one who has read nothing more than the current chapter of the narrative, although with strong enough inferential skills, even that chapter jumping mind would likely not be saved from the predisposition- scarcely moved whilst the aforementioned machinations whirred silently. There was hardly a need for this being done, as minds as quick and bright as the two occupying this perforated room could process information gleaned in such short a time, at speeds undeserving of this such contemplation period. Nevertheless, never the ones for cursory action, student and tutor remained stagnant, unangled lines of sight remaining between eachother’s designated areas of visual perception. The indicative perforations whistled slightly with a breeze, signaling the unstill world that remained outside of the thoughtspace of each great mind here to those minds which occupied it. Perhaps a source of game had just been slain in the fields of Sudlen, perhaps where the same neighborhood climbed in density until it became part of the city, children played and waved to their passing friend who had been lost many years prior to a powerful bureaucracy she was doomed to inherit as the highest lauding of gifts. Perhaps, a man had just been arrested by that very same bureaucratic system several days prior, and was in the tribulations of being freed by a similar system, though one much more in his favor, as one subscribed not ascribed to. And among those who gave him his freedom was one who let words flow from pen onto parchment, disguising ideas that would lead to condemnation of the radical with flowery poetry, allowing them to maneuver their intentions into the minds of multitudes without facing confrontation. Perhaps, however, none of that was happening at all, and as it was past midnight, everyone was asleep in the divided city. That would seem like quite a strong possibility.

At a far over extrapolated length, the student spoke, “Have you so quickly forgotten the nature of my arrival in this very room where you study today, my teacher? The purpose of my mission, the goal of my expidition, the focal point of my quest, the-”

“Yes yes Calmasis,” a man so learned as Zazzerpan certainly needed no education on the multitude of synonymous phrases his pupil had prepared to issue forth, “The nature of the book… it should not surprise one as yourself to discern that this tome’s true meaning is not forthright what it seems to be. An encryption wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped-”

“Yes yes my tutor,” a child so quick as Calmasis needed no education on the multitude of synonymous phrases their teacher had prepared to issue forth, “The nature of the book is clearly not something clear. In fact, it would appear a kind of encryption, or failing that, some dialect I am yet unfamiliar with has been used throughout. Judging by the worn cover and page edges, though their bodies are peculiarly well kept, I have deduced the book to be quite old. Whatever dialect used, if dialects they in fact may be, is most likely from a distant past rather than a distant land. The book seems to be telling quite the esoteric narrative, a fantasy, of a much different world than our own.”

The thought was not given much space to ruminate before the teacher formed a response, “Of course your deductions are ever poignant Calmasis.” Zazzerpan made straight his seemingly already taken care of beard as he spoke, and continued upwards to light patting at his face. Skin shown here, seemingly forcibly consumed by tendrils of the smoky beard, had an appearance much similar to that of the vigorless appendages that had caused the cacophony just moments prior. One would not be hard pressed to venture into the library to find the Learned’s skin’s visual and textural counterpart among the shelves or collected on the floor there accompanying. Clearing his throat before speaking again, he stated, “This book is a work of fantasy, yes, although, in light of real events, told allegorically.”

“Allegorically…..” the amount of space allowed for rumination was at stark contrast from just previous in this conversation, for this was a possibility the student had considered, but not paused for much thought upon. It’s likelihood excited their brain into a new flurry of informational connectivity, a mental conspiracy theorists yarn and cork, at lightning speed and with the surface area equal to that of the walls of all the palace.

“Yes, allegorically,” cinematically now, responses were delivered between the two. Zazzerpan, having naught to ponder on in the realm of the book specifically, occupied his mind with a cogitation concerning the psychological nature of his student’s inquiries.

“An allegorical retelling of what exactly, Zazzerpan,” there was a whistling as the perforations provided instrumentation of the air operated type to the general song of the area.

“Ah, but that question is the one you are tasked to unlock per my assignment young one,” the teacher wore a look of contentedness with his accordant response.

“Zazzerpan you had no idea what was in this book until just-”

“My Assignment dictates that you unlock this question, precisely. Now, I suggest you get to it, possibly you will have the meaning discovered before Plasasi Feast, if you are quick enough at deciphering draconian tales of faraway lands within the guise of some such fantasies.”

A song of the room, with lightshow to make it a full concert, which slowly changed to an orange hue and ascended the angles of their beams until they faced the ceiling of this room near the apex of one of the highest points in the general area. Plasasi loomed just past this temporal signal, only a small number more would need to pass for it to come into being. What marks a calendar by these rising and fallings of sunbeams in another room much similar to this one but not precisely. A measure to know if the day is to come or to go and if Plasasi is upon us. Locked into a broader scale, however, is a more elusive measurer, one who is not trusted by all, but considered by those who do to be a much more ephemeral beauty. Much more glowing than the sun, much more peaceful, much more pulchritudinously eye treating. A white canvas to draw encroaching tendrils directly onto, and have them sit satisfyingly there. 

An esoteric rant about what you the reader care nothing yet everything about, or will think either in coming time.


End file.
